Ipso linked to Facto in attempts to ward off Absurdum.

SIDELONG GLANCES
Origami Tessellations · Wrinkles in time as folded by Origami Joel. Do not miss the masks folded from a single sheet of paper. via
Literature in Transit · Bags and wallets made from books. Of particular note or curiosity, the Onoto Watanna clutch here. Also, Rebound Designs. via
DailyLit · Classic books emailed to you in 5 minute bits. via
Honolulu Weekly Summer Books 2006 · What to read in a world of blue.
WriteRoom 1.0b · A small app that creates a full screen writing environment. Black screen, green text, nothing more. Brilliant. Early, early beta. Mac only.

ESSENTIAL THINGS
(what is this?)
about last night
angry little asian girl
asian-american poetry
eat feed
every other day
fait accompli
geegaw.com
hoarded ordinaries
i like
light reading
lisablog
newpages
octopus' garden
on the prairie diamond
peter parasol
poesy galore
poeta y diwata
pullquote
riley dog
self divider
shaken & stirred
the beiderbecke affair
the gurgling cod
the literary saloon
the weekly meat
things magazine
think denk
tingle alley
tympan
unphotographable
vertigo
wood s lot


Howzit? as if asking after a small alien life form, dotted, with a single eye on a stalk. Elsewhere:
Also, from the department of whose facts are they anyway: Moloka‘i book criticized as unethical, inaccurate.
You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, “No, I don’t want to watch TV!” Raise your voice—they won’t hear you otherwise—“I’m reading! I don’t want to be disturbed!” Maybe they haven’t heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: “I’m beginning to read Italo Calvino’s new novel!” Or if you prefer, don’t say anything; just hope they’ll leave you alone.
Find the most comfortable position: seated, stretched out, curled up, or lying flat. Flat on your back, on your side, on your stomach. In an easy chair, on the hassock. In a hammock, if you have a hammock. On top of your bed, of course, or in the bed. You can even stand on your hands, head down, in the yoga position. With the book upside down, naturally.
Of course, the ideal position for reading is something you can never find. In the old days they used to read standing up, at a lectern. People were accustomed to standing on their feet, without moving. They rested like that when they were tired of horseback riding. Nobody ever thought of reading on horseback; and yet now, the idea of sitting in the saddle, the book propped against the horse’s mane, or maybe tied to the horse’s ear with a special harness, seems attractive to you. With your feet in the stirrups, you should feel quite comfortable for reading; having your feet up is the first condition for enjoying a read.
Well, what are you waiting for?
—I. Calvino
The edge of the ocean.
As the crow flies.
Squirrel away.
No man is an etc. etc.
The road beckons.
The slow descent of night.
From sea to shining sea.
There is a project to finish. Reading, and everything, scrabbles for new purchase.
Recently to that end, Vivian Gornick’s The Situation and the Story: The Art of the Personal Narrative, one of the frequently cited go-to guides to which one is sent when wanting to know what an essay is and how, or why, would one write about the self. What Gornick does well: close reading of the kind that takes the measure of a sentence or a passage and gleans what makes it tick. She excels at conveying the experience of reading, both the sensuous pleasure she finds as well as the process of creating meaning. Most appealing to her is prose that is cumulative, calibrated, that presents the writing mind behind it as certain both in syntax [not surprising] and assessments [more frustrating] that in their cumulative, calibrated effect tap truth. That strikes me not as certainty necessarily, but life held at a controlled, observable distance, far enough to make the lived feel artful. She sees this as part of the craft of persona, but it’s the type of persona that leaves me weary, that I distrust.
Gornick for her part is unabashed about truth, or at least the truth of a particular moment. While some of the best fiction is told by unreliable narrators, she argues, personal narrative is never, can never be. Writers of nonfiction are “truth speakers”; accordingly, the best essays depend upon a writer who “knows who they are at the moment of writing” [her emphasis]. That knowledge, she says, will arise from the writer examining directly or indirectly a tension within. More interesting is this question of knowing who you are at the moment of writing, the degree to which that is feigned, in what ways the crafted dissemblance that you, the writer, possess such knowledge is core to the persona of the essayist for better, ill, and how many writers at the moment of writing believe in truth that they know much of anything.
Less interesting is the section on memoir, though I find most memoir less in general, but reassuring to me, strangely, is her declaration that Sebald writes not novels but memoir—because I adore Sebald, because I want to wander endlessly the paths of his brain. She saves her most provocative claim for last:
It is, I think, a measure of the bankruptcy of fiction that The Rings of Saturn is repeatedly called a novel. Sebald is doing an old-fashioned thing here, entering into the narrating self in a way that ignores modernism and postmodernism alike and is as far from gargantuan, language-besotted, mythical abstractions of contemporary fiction writers like Pynchon, Powers, and DeLillo as literature will allow itself to go.
”[A]s far…as literature will allow itself to go” is persona, “the banckruptcy of fiction,” tension. How I wish she would write more about the latter.
*
Excerpt: After Nature, W. G. Sebald
