This week's Dog Ear's feature a psych-out from The Paris Review as well as an explanation for the mumbo jumbo blurbs on the back of books:
- Hey, kid, want to have your poetry published by The Paris Review? Well, today's your lucky day! Oh, wait, no, it's not.
- And for all you Kafka fans: "Box with Kafka manuscript to be opened to the public." (By the way, the "manuscripts" are not unfinished novels, they're letters and and other equally non-novelly things. I think I must be one of the few people who isn't all that interested in reading things by famous people that were never intended for publication... oh, except for the poetry of Emily Dickinson, of course... oh, and Joyce's letters to his wife, obviously. Anything to get me through the long cold Houston nights. (I kid, I kid, but seriously: knowing more about an author's inner thoughts doesn't discount or increase the impact of his work. I shall now step down from my virtual soapbox.)
- Check out Robert McCrum's "Blubs Fail Me" from The Guardian to see what those blurbs on the back of the book really mean. (And, yes, I know I'm about four years late to this one, but it's still worth reading.)