tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29076717904859295202024-03-13T11:44:59.634-04:00Bunny Eat BunnyThe erstwhile weblog of Brenda Bowen, Literary AgentAnne Hoppehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03015096519080022738noreply@blogger.comBlogger112125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-8525828176729744772012-05-16T08:40:00.000-04:002012-05-16T08:40:59.969-04:00And in closing...<dl><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<dd> </dd><dd>The blog is more than tragically neglected; it is past. What's future, we know not. I'm in a Miltonic mood, and had thought to leave you, gentle reader, with the blind poet's last elegiac lines from "Lycidas."</dd><dd> </dd><dd><i>And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills,</i></dd><dd><i>And now was dropt into the Western bay;</i></dd><dd><i>At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew:</i></dd><dd><i>To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.</i></dd><dd><i> </i></dd><dd>But possibly that's a little too on the nose, as they say in Hollywood. </dd><dd> </dd><dd><i> </i></dd><dd>So here are some other lines from Milton, lines that I first typed out and pinned to my bulletin board when I was a fresh young editorial director at Henry Holt in 1990-something, and now no longer need to pin up because now there's the internet, and because I have them by heart. </dd><dd><br /></dd><dd> <i><q cite="http://quotationsbook.com/quote/4731/">For books are not
absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be
as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve
as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living
intellect that bred them. I know they are as lively, and as vigorously
productive, as those fabulous dragon's teeth; and being sown up and
down, may chance to spring up armed men.</q></i> </dd><dd> </dd><dd>Books may have shape-shifted since Johnny Milton's time, but oh may those dragon's teeth spring up for ever! </dd><dd><br /></dd><dd><br /></dd></dl>Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-79912864701153191962011-11-10T07:59:00.004-05:002011-11-10T08:11:16.611-05:00Meanwhile, across the Pond<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PUA37Wv1MMM/TrvMS6LtcsI/AAAAAAAAAlE/vtf_FsRQ_hM/s1600/Louise-Mensch-007.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 232px; height: 139px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PUA37Wv1MMM/TrvMS6LtcsI/AAAAAAAAAlE/vtf_FsRQ_hM/s320/Louise-Mensch-007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673352780831355586" border="0" /></a><br />I'm watching a live stream of James Murdoch being questioned by members of Parliament in London, even as I write. (Thank you, <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/blog/2011/nov/10/phone-hacking-james-murdoch-live">Guardian newspaper</a>.) I continue to be fascinated by this scandal, for reasons too numerous to examine in this post. But here's what struck me this morning:<br /><br /><span class="timestamp"><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/blog/2011/nov/10/phone-hacking-james-murdoch-live#block-49" class="block-link" title="Link to update 49">12.54pm:</a></span> Louise Mensch apologises that she has to leave immediately after her questions to collect her children which she says are the same ages as Murdoch's.<br /><br />Could you imagine for one second that a member of the US Congress would say he/she had to leave a hearing to pick up his/her children? Even one as glamorous as <a href="http://www.louisemensch.net/about">Louise Mensch</a>? I await the day.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-31222793042333663052011-10-14T20:20:00.005-04:002011-10-14T20:57:14.568-04:00Why I (still) love the Con<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IXLDpnRQNQo/TpjYNvo9ZCI/AAAAAAAAAkI/zpz-HMzsg-U/s1600/2011-10-12-12.41.24-tm.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IXLDpnRQNQo/TpjYNvo9ZCI/AAAAAAAAAkI/zpz-HMzsg-U/s320/2011-10-12-12.41.24-tm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663514262056559650" border="0" /></a><br />I stopped in at <a href="http://www.newyorkcomiccon.com/">New York Comic-Con</a> tonight on my way home from drinks at the <a href="http://www.oldtownbar.com/">Old Town</a>. Granted, I didn't start attending Comic-Con when it was a few folding tables with old comic books in downtown San Diego. But I have been going for a while. I almost skipped this year, but here's why I still love the Con. Eleven reasons, because prime numbers are cool (at the Con).<br /><br />1. The Popular Kids can't make it to the Con.<br />2. People read at the Con.<br />3. Folks are humble at the Con.<br />4. They give you the benefit of the doubt at the Con.<br />5. <a href="http://suvudu.com/2011/10/margaret-mcnamara-on-the-nycc-origins-of-the-three-little-aliens-and-the-big-bad-robot.html">Good ideas</a> come from the Con.<br />6. Nobody tries to stop you at the Con.<br />7. There's a lack of irony at the Con.<br />8. All body types are celebrated at the Con.<br />9. The graphics are great at the Con.<br />10. People share at the Con.<br />11. There's a lot of hope at the Con.<br /><br />See you in San Diego.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-29964011256483447712011-10-11T22:10:00.006-04:002011-10-11T22:24:29.454-04:00To do list for this past Columbus Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0UMUoJtiof0/TpT5EE-cDWI/AAAAAAAAAj8/Xs2JoO7bqTw/s1600/hugo-movie-chloe-moretz-asa-butterfield%252B%2525282%252529.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 166px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0UMUoJtiof0/TpT5EE-cDWI/AAAAAAAAAj8/Xs2JoO7bqTw/s320/hugo-movie-chloe-moretz-asa-butterfield%252B%2525282%252529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662424479961976162" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WMdBctNS92c/TpT4Q5_GRHI/AAAAAAAAAjk/NeEXHVVB-jE/s1600/peoples_library_occupy_wall_street1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 185px; height: 139px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WMdBctNS92c/TpT4Q5_GRHI/AAAAAAAAAjk/NeEXHVVB-jE/s320/peoples_library_occupy_wall_street1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662423600838624370" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qh4I_Ml9jsc/TpT38dbdLlI/AAAAAAAAAjY/UPIMAKXIhXo/s1600/peoples_library_occupy_wall_street1.jpg"><br /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Write till noon<br />Dye eyelashes<br />Bike downtown<br />Come up with good book idea<br /><a href="http://occupywallst.org/">Occupy Wall Street</a><br />Kayak in Hudson<br />Catch Martin Scorsese's <a href="http://www.hugomovie.com"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hugo</span></a> as a work-in-progress<br /><br /><br />All done!Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-45208744592428280632011-10-02T17:06:00.007-04:002011-10-08T08:20:39.559-04:00New Frontiers: THE WESTERN MYSTERIES<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kN3b5kdvci4/TojW3qNr3PI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/mQZgpzOYbpc/s1600/hungarian-pastry-shop.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kN3b5kdvci4/TojW3qNr3PI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/mQZgpzOYbpc/s200/hungarian-pastry-shop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659009183503867122" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PM4FfbY_Shw/TojWWH9DGWI/AAAAAAAAAjA/fKEZuozzffQ/s1600/WMcover.jpg"><br /></a><br /> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p.MsoNoSpacing, li.MsoNoSpacing, div.MsoNoSpacing { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I go to the Hungarian Pastry Shop to write. It’s where I’m writing now. I’ve been coming here since I first arrived in New York and lived at the Deanery on the grounds of the <a href="http://www.stjohndivine.org/history_written.html">Cathedral of St. John the Divine</a> (long story) right across the street. </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />Yesterday I was here working on a picture book text, which I had owed to my gifted and clear-eyed editor, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/schwartzwadebooks/">Lee Wade,</a> for some time. I am proud to say I finished a first draft. Now Lee will tear it apart, at least I hope she will.<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">I was a little distracted – but not too much – by a fortyish, shaven-headed man at the next table who was pitching a business idea to a younger friend? intern? B-schoolmate? It was only when the pitcher described the business as “a reservoir of stories that you can go to any time” that of course my ears pricked up. Like the pitchee, I didn’t really cotton to what this business was. People wrote stories, posted them, and then other people could buy them as a plot for their own work? At least that’s what I think it was. Who would do such a thing I can’t imagine. (It would put Hollywood out of business.) But he was convinced, if not convincing.<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">It made me think of the Gold Rush and the last last frontier we had: the Wild West. I’ve been thinking about the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J5l22qFlPS4/TojWeXLlnxI/AAAAAAAAAjI/WUMRBeVR0FY/s1600/WMcover.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 126px; height: 202px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J5l22qFlPS4/TojWeXLlnxI/AAAAAAAAAjI/WUMRBeVR0FY/s400/WMcover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659008748898066194" border="0" /></a>Wild West because I’m the lucky co-agent of <a href="http://tomboycowgirl.blogspot.com/">Caroline Lawrence’s Western Mysteries</a>, the first book of which, The <a href="http://www.thebookette.co.uk/2011/06/review-case-of-deadly-desperados.html">Case of the Deadly Desperados</a>, is coming out in Spring of next year. If you think of the series as <span style="font-style: italic;">Deadwood</span> meets Mark Twain by way of Richard Peck, you’ll have the right idea. It’s funny, original, unsparing, and it has the most original hero you’re going to meet anywhere in books next year. I love it.<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">For a while we thought that space was the next (and final) frontier. But virtual space is our own Gold Rush, and its power and allure are as palpable as they were in 1849, even if the coffee and beans have been changed to espressos and <a href="http://chowhound.chow.com/topics/268874">ischlers</a>. </p>Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-56481328643499950182011-07-08T22:38:00.007-04:002011-07-08T22:48:57.411-04:00Separated at Birth? Rebekah Brooks & Mary Magdalene<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xgqUMwrg8YU/ThfAGZIsIiI/AAAAAAAAAiw/Lpn0ruRH214/s1600/marygrail.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xgqUMwrg8YU/ThfAGZIsIiI/AAAAAAAAAiw/Lpn0ruRH214/s320/marygrail.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627177475481805346" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s1kfrqm9TAc/ThfAYkrYBCI/AAAAAAAAAi4/9FtPQ7NVPeo/s1600/Rebekah-Brooks-007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s1kfrqm9TAc/ThfAYkrYBCI/AAAAAAAAAi4/9FtPQ7NVPeo/s320/Rebekah-Brooks-007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627177787817722914" border="0" /></a><br />As a redhead, I couldn't help but notice.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-9452887284967247292011-04-01T22:09:00.003-04:002011-04-01T22:14:37.661-04:00Poetry Friday: The wisdom of Kentucky trees<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PWQg6m0SCcE/TZaGaDB3blI/AAAAAAAAAik/08XyZqYLdk8/s1600/353467525_39484815af-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PWQg6m0SCcE/TZaGaDB3blI/AAAAAAAAAik/08XyZqYLdk8/s320/353467525_39484815af-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590803769474903634" border="0" /></a><br />Here's a poem I received as part of an everyday email today from the wondrous George Ella Lyon:<br /><br />We're having a cold spell in Kentucky.<br />The trees keep saying April! April!<br />and the wind says Fool! Fool!<br /><br />But we know the trees are right.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-62098533186364224082011-02-04T21:36:00.006-05:002011-02-04T22:17:32.708-05:00Poetry Friday: The Unacknowledged Legislators of Mankind<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TUy_wg1MAbI/AAAAAAAAAiQ/m4wrwzeh668/s1600/1224288773017_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TUy_wg1MAbI/AAAAAAAAAiQ/m4wrwzeh668/s320/1224288773017_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570037679318106546" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p.MsoNoSpacing, li.MsoNoSpacing, div.MsoNoSpacing { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal">Marilyn Singer will be one of the panelists tomorrow at a program at the New York Public Library called "A Passel of Poets: Children's Poetry in the Modern Age." One of the questions librarian Betsy Bird asks is "Does poetry for kids ever truly get its due?' I actually think it does; if not publicly, then in the hearts and minds of the readers. Certainly that was true for this reader of poetry.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Shelley called poets the unacknowledged legislators of mankind. Here's an acknowledgment of poetry for a Friday night by way of Kurt Anderson and his radio program Studio 360. Anderson interviewed Palestinian poet Tamim Al-Bargouthi on NPR earlier this week. Al-Bargouthi, previously unknown to this blogger, is a poet who came to the world's attention with his poem "In Jerusalem." His father is Palestinian; his mother Egyptian.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">Al-Bargouthi is not in Cairo right now, though from Kurt Anderson's interview it sounds as if he longs to be there. But his contribution has been felt. He wrote a poem about the revolution in Egypt, and faxed it to his newspaper in Cairo. According to Studio 360, when the paper published it, the text was photocopied and distributed among the people risking their lives in Tahrir Square. Al-Bargouthi's image was somehow broadcast "every ten minutes" on sheets pinned up by the people calling for Mubarak's ouster in Cairo. In a revolution, poetry is worth dying for.<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">This is a transcription of Al-Bargouthi's very rough and off-the-cuff translation on Anderson's radio show. I don’t have any Arabic, so I can neither read nor transcribe his words. I wish I could. But even in this unpoetic translation, the poetry speaks for itself.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">O Egypt, It’s Close</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">We’re close, it’s going to be a good day,</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">Nothing remains of power but a few batons,</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">If you don’t believe it, just come to the Square and see.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">The tyrant only exists in the imagination of his subjects,</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">Even those who stays at home after this will be free.</p>Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-60834917283505361382011-01-21T15:21:00.002-05:002011-01-21T15:28:10.068-05:00Boulevard of Broken Dreams<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TTnrSThVIEI/AAAAAAAAAh8/0xR5ILJcbuM/s1600/Duck%2BNot-in%2Bservice.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TTnrSThVIEI/AAAAAAAAAh8/0xR5ILJcbuM/s320/Duck%2BNot-in%2Bservice.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564737514303201346" border="0" /></a>Seen today on Upper Broadway. Between the snow and his expression and the sign -- let there be no mistake: it's the <span style="font-style: italic;">Duck</span> that's not in service -- my heart cracked a little.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-42312875225845035042011-01-20T21:32:00.014-05:002011-01-21T08:45:24.877-05:00Ricky Gervais for Newbery/Caldecott Banquet?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TTj3DqELkLI/AAAAAAAAAh0/vm_A6u1JtJ0/s1600/gervaiscap-articleInline.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TTj3DqELkLI/AAAAAAAAAh0/vm_A6u1JtJ0/s200/gervaiscap-articleInline.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564468981819740338" border="0" /></a>Somehow I don't think so.<br /><br />Ricky Gervais might have been the right host for the Golden Globes this year, but he'd never do at Newbery Caldecott or the National Book Awards or PEN or the Authors Guild. We've had celebrities -- Garrison Keillor (he counts!) and Steve Martin and others. I know the N/C banquet can seem awfully earnest, but honestly I'd take that over ungraceful mockery. People in Hollywood actually work very hard on movies. A lot of films are works of art that will last after we're all gone. Some of them are not, but I think our pals in Tinseltown deserve something better.<br /><br />So before we in the book community bemoan the fact that the <span style="font-style: italic;">Today</span> show doesn't pick up our authors, or that NBC doesn't cover Poets & Writers, let's remember that when events are not televised, they're allowed to have their own personality and style. Their own profile, warts and all. They're allowed to rejoice in themselves. Sometimes banquets are dull; sometimes speakers are unspeakable; but the banquets I've been lucky enough to attend and the speakers I've been lucky enough to hear are all trying to get at something: that art has a place; that artistic endeavor should be lauded; and that some things are worth taking seriously.<br /><br />Last week, I was hunting around for photos for my daughter's yearbook page. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TTj2szL9hvI/AAAAAAAAAhk/7J4MTN1MpSU/s1600/vew%2Bat%2Bnba3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 257px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TTj2szL9hvI/AAAAAAAAAhk/7J4MTN1MpSU/s320/vew%2Bat%2Bnba3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564468589131302642" border="0" /></a>I found some great old pics of her, and I also found this photo of Virginia Euwer Wolff at the National Book Awards in November, 2001. Below are Jinny's remarks from that evening. After hearing them, Steve Martin (never sufficiently to be praised) said "My God. She went from shock to eloquence in three seconds."<br /><br />That's the kind of remark we're privileged to hear at a celebration of artistic endeavor that takes itself just seriously enough.<br /><br />Here's what Jinny had to say:<br /><br /><p style="font-style: italic;" align="left"> Like most authors, I have wondered since September 11th what I would ever write again, if I would ever write anything, and if so, would it matter? Usually, the answer has been no, for two months, the answer has been no. You understand, don't you? Of course. </p> <p style="font-style: italic;"> Today my son, Anthony, and I went to the World Trade Center site and we walked around. What I saw was living proof of Faulkner's six. Faulkner said in 1949 in the Nobel speech that if we are not writing about these six things we are not doing our job. They are love, honor, pity, pride, compassion and sacrifice. I think of them as Faulkner's six. I used to have them on my wall until I memorized them and now they're on this wall in here.</p> <p style="font-style: italic;"> And I saw them today at Ground Zero, the work that is going on and the awe and the humility and the hush and the consideration. Love, honor, pity, pride, compassion and sacrifice. That's what you and I and all of us are supposed to be writing about; Faulkner said it and he was right. Thank you.</p>Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-48337993933275339532010-12-31T00:35:00.009-05:002010-12-31T09:42:28.669-05:00Blue Valentine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TR1x_WSt8GI/AAAAAAAAAhM/6YR1b8iYNwY/s1600/pic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 149px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TR1x_WSt8GI/AAAAAAAAAhM/6YR1b8iYNwY/s200/pic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556722848374845538" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Ryan Gosling is heartbreaking in <span style="font-style: italic;">Blue Valentine</span>, the new movie about how devastatingly sad it is when two people stop loving each other. He's an extraordinary actor, different in every movie. In this film Dean, Gosling's character, is the one whose pain I felt most keenly. You've read about the movie, I'm sure, and the experience of watching it, for me at least, was diminished by knowing a little too much about it. But I don't think it will be a spoiler to hear that Gosling's character has a tattoo on his upper arm that features the cover of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Giving Tree</span>. It's such a killer image, because the book has duped Dean into believing its cold-hearted message: the more you give, the more will be taken, until you've given everything, and there's nothing left.<br /><br />I thought of Dean reading <span style="font-style: italic;">The Giving Tree</span> over and over to his daughter, having so much faith in it that he had it carved into his skin -- which even recalls Kafka's <span style="font-style: italic;">In the Penal Colony</span>, in a way. I guess there are ways to erase tattoos these days, but I somehow think Dean w<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TR1wsHGCHmI/AAAAAAAAAg8/yi63OkeU6xQ/s1600/blue-valentine-movie-photo-04.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 163px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TR1wsHGCHmI/AAAAAAAAAg8/yi63OkeU6xQ/s320/blue-valentine-movie-photo-04.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556721418365967970" border="0" /></a>on't have it removed. I can't shake him from my head, and I only wish that he had read a different book to his little girl. There are better books about love.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-11852474624793090322010-07-21T11:56:00.005-04:002010-07-21T12:13:25.669-04:00Rara Avis<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TEcaDyc9QyI/AAAAAAAAAgo/arceqGFDukY/s1600/Window+washer.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TEcaDyc9QyI/AAAAAAAAAgo/arceqGFDukY/s320/Window+washer.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496390522614137634" border="0" /></a><br />I love the view from the 15th-floor window of my office at 55 Fifth. Village rooftops with white-robed men practicing martial arts. Lots of trees, green now in summer. A handsome swath of the Hudson River with its mighty river traffic. Sometimes I see red hawks being beaten up by crows. Bluebottle flies, too high up, take a breather on my windowsill.<br /><br />Here's the unexpected <span style="font-style: italic;">rara avis</span> that perched on that same windowsill today. He wasn't there long; he just took time enough to do his job, swiftly and neatly.<br /><br />I held my breath the whole time. Then he straightened his wings, clamped onto the next set of bolts, and was gone.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-704247123322384042010-06-24T09:03:00.003-04:002010-06-24T09:55:47.217-04:00It's hard to be mad at your daughter...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TCNZFuIy5TI/AAAAAAAAAgg/50usH3XUAwg/s1600/Photo+133.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TCNZFuIy5TI/AAAAAAAAAgg/50usH3XUAwg/s320/Photo+133.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486326725886534962" border="0" /></a><br />...when her reason for not doing the dishes is that she was reading Billy Collins aloud with her best friend.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-72366712664916355832010-06-18T23:13:00.004-04:002010-06-18T23:29:06.768-04:00Poetry Friday: Cruel, Clever Cat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TBw4mrPx1GI/AAAAAAAAAgY/YontOOd76a8/s1600/WildlifeFive.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TBw4mrPx1GI/AAAAAAAAAgY/YontOOd76a8/s320/WildlifeFive.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484320683325510754" border="0" /></a><br />For a moment there today, I couldn't remember whether it was "bated breath" or "baited breath." Just for a moment. Then I remember bated/abated, and realized it was the former. But I had already googled it, and thence came upon this little ditty by a poet unknown to me, Geoffrey Taylor. I could not resist pairing the poem with a photo pared from the Facebook page of author/artist <a href="http://www.brianfloca.com/">Brian Floca</a>, from his celebrated "Wildlife Photography, 23rd Street" series.<br /><br />Clever, Cruel Cat<br /><br />Sally, having swallowed cheese<br /> Directs down holes the scented breeze<br /> Enticing thus with baited breath<br /> Nice mice to an untimely death.<br /><br />Clever, cruel Sally! We could use her on the F train.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-25821567748566059132010-06-10T13:28:00.006-04:002010-06-10T14:14:34.614-04:00Hooray for Cake<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TBEmdx8Fo0I/AAAAAAAAAgQ/PRISG7Nb2v0/s1600/Boylan8.png"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TBEmdx8Fo0I/AAAAAAAAAgQ/PRISG7Nb2v0/s320/Boylan8.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481204514550031170" border="0" /></a><br />I was a bit slow to blog about a book party the Bunny hosted for her erstwhile author, Jennifer Finney Boylan, whose terrific new book, <span style="font-style: italic;">Falcon Quinn and the Black Mirror</span>, is now happily published by Katherine Tegen Books at HarperCollins. I was a bit slow because I thought perhaps <a href="http://blog.schoollibraryjournal.com/afuse8production/2010/06/10/hooray-for-cake/">Betsy Bird would blog about it in her own sparkling and irresistible style</a>, and now she has.<br /><br />Here's one secret even Betsy Bird didn't know: When I heard that certain well-known authors were planning to attend the affair, I looked around the house for the copies of their books I <span style="font-style: italic;">knew</span> I had. But they were almost all absent. The Richard Russos were in place, but the Cecily von Ziegesars were in storage; my two copies of <span style="font-style: italic;">Running With Scissors</span> -- hardcover -- had been lent out and never returned; and my Jennifer Finney Boylan backlist was at my sister's. (I'll admit I did not have any copies of the plays of Edward Albee. Then.)<br /><br />I figured if I were an author and I came to someone's house, a house pretty much filled with bookshelves, the very first thing I would do would be to scan the shelves, oh so nonchalantly, for my own name. And I could not bear to have these authors look on my shelves -- shelves that had once held their books, most <span style="font-style: italic;">bought at retail</span> -- and find themselves missing.<br /><br />One of the glories of living in New York is that there are bookstores all over the place. So the day of the party, I high-tailed it uptown to an indie, and downtown to a chain and a used, to pick up copies of what I was missing. I slipped them into their rightful places (alpha by author, except for the plays, which went on the slender Drama shelf), about half an hour before the first doorbell rang. Then I took a belt of the Sicko Sauce, and declared that the party could begin.<br /><br />Did the writers scan the shelves? I'll never know. But I was happy to look up and see those names, and those books. Parties come and go, but words endure.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Many thanks to A.B. for the photo, and to HarperCollins for underwriting the affair. </span></span>Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-85677113357633733272010-06-09T16:25:00.003-04:002010-06-09T16:28:02.568-04:00Why People Read<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TA_4ysU-9MI/AAAAAAAAAgI/jN70-STA30I/s1600/Freud+in+french.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TA_4ysU-9MI/AAAAAAAAAgI/jN70-STA30I/s320/Freud+in+french.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480872821309502658" border="0" /></a>So they can spend their mornings reading in West Village cafes.<br /><br />And she was reading Freud. In French.<br /><br />Actually, this post might be better titled, "Why People Come to New York."<br /><br />Because they can read Freud in French. Or meet people who do.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-39774723768071391482010-06-07T18:15:00.006-04:002010-06-07T20:44:38.035-04:00Poetry in unlikely places<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TA2SILKPW4I/AAAAAAAAAfs/77SH7--Fnts/s1600/IMG00355-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TA2SILKPW4I/AAAAAAAAAfs/77SH7--Fnts/s320/IMG00355-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480196990712109954" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TA1xlHzaFnI/AAAAAAAAAfk/HJ8XUkTxSkw/s1600/nytimes+masthead.jpg"><br /></a><br />I know magazines are folding and newspapers will soon cease to exist, but what will ever replace the little gems of meteorological narrative non-fiction that appear in the upper right-hand corner of the New York Times each day? Here's what the Late Edition told us this morning, and so far it's all come true:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Today</span>, mostly sunny, not as warm<br />nor as humid, high 76. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Tonight</span>,<br />mostly clear, comfortable, low 58. <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Tomorrow</span>, mostly sunny, nice.<br /><br />The world is gushing chaos, but somehow gentleness survives.<br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />(The photo was taken on my way home from work today. Tango by the River at sunset.) </span>Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-72668392346478563212010-05-31T09:48:00.004-04:002010-05-31T10:03:58.061-04:00Poetry Friday (Memorial Day weekend edition)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TAPBKj8fZzI/AAAAAAAAAfc/LZMrspGUS6U/s1600/22birds4505.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TAPBKj8fZzI/AAAAAAAAAfc/LZMrspGUS6U/s400/22birds4505.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477433959004464946" border="0" /></a><br /><h3 id="poemTitle"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family: arial;">Things slow down on Memorial Day Weekend, especially if you stay in the city. So here's a belated Poetry Friday post in commemoration of this weekend, Siefried Sassoon's "Everyone Sang." I know this would better posted on Armistice Day, as that was when it was written -- days after World War I was declared over on November 11, 1918. But in my mind, there is never a day when a poem about the end of war is not welcome.</span></span><br /></span></span></h3><h3 id="poemTitle">Everyone Sang</h3> <div id="poemText"> <pre>Everyone suddenly burst out singing;<br />And I was filled with such delight<br />As prisoned birds must find in freedom,<br />Winging wildly across the white<br />Orchards and dark-green fields; on—on—and out of sight.<br /><br />Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted;<br />And beauty came like the setting sun:<br />My heart was shaken with tears; and horror<br />Drifted away … O, but Everyone<br />Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.<br /><br /> -- Siegfried Sassoon<br /><br /><br />(with thanks to Richard Barnes of the New York Times for the photograph of starlings over Rome)<br /></pre> </div>Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-89112016368687166922010-05-29T21:48:00.003-04:002010-05-29T21:51:23.312-04:00How the Sphinx Got to the Museum<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TAHEdORN9MI/AAAAAAAAAfU/FRO-8_l276I/s1600/9781609050320_norm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 204px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/TAHEdORN9MI/AAAAAAAAAfU/FRO-8_l276I/s400/9781609050320_norm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476874628184798402" border="0" /></a><br />Jessie Hartland's terrific book is coming out this fall. Featured at BEA -- with its own timeline poster -- it will be on the shelves of the Metropolitan Museum and bookstores all over the country this fall.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-40971183392172082042010-05-23T22:38:00.005-04:002010-05-23T22:52:54.053-04:00Margaret Wise Brown Birthday Party<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S_noYF-xe0I/AAAAAAAAAfE/_9zWsN7rRqs/s1600/DSC_0859.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 352px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S_noYF-xe0I/AAAAAAAAAfE/_9zWsN7rRqs/s200/DSC_0859.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474662322665519938" border="0" /></a><br />Let's call it the First Annual MWB Birthday Party, because I for one would like to do it again. There were cupcakes, baffled tourists, pleased parents, delighted cupcake-eating kids, random teens, and some stalwart librarians, <a href="http://www.stephensavage.com">game artists</a>, and children's book enthusiasts. Dianne Hess of Scholastic Press stole the day by actually <span style="font-style: italic;">dressing</span> like Margaret Wise Brown. <a href="http://www.schoollibraryjournal.com/blog/1790000379.html">Betsy Bird</a> knowledgeably informed us that Margaret and Ursula Nordstrom would have had their protest tea on the north stairs of the Library, as that was the entrance to the children's room. But we had our celebration on the front steps, and we here at Bunny Eat Bunny hope you celebrated the life of this fabulous woman with fur and poetry and sensuality and rash behavior.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S_no54NHjHI/AAAAAAAAAfM/rJbCkDUKySk/s1600/DSC_0861.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S_no54NHjHI/AAAAAAAAAfM/rJbCkDUKySk/s200/DSC_0861.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474662903083142258" border="0" /></a>Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-51973730116683306702010-05-06T22:09:00.007-04:002010-05-06T22:37:08.120-04:00Margaret Wise Brown Birthday Sing-in: May 23<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S-N7A-x6vPI/AAAAAAAAAe0/LHQp_rpuYX4/s1600/MargaretWiseBrown.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 164px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S-N7A-x6vPI/AAAAAAAAAe0/LHQp_rpuYX4/s200/MargaretWiseBrown.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468349629340499186" border="0" /></a><br />Margaret Wise Brown deserves the laurel leaf crown for many reasons -- the last line of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Runaway Bunny</span>, the real moths in the pretend <span style="font-style: italic;">Little Fur Family</span>, Maine -- but the prime reason is this: She once staged a literary tea on the steps of the New York Public Library in defiance of <a href="http://bowenpress.blogspot.com/2009/11/eloise-at-library.html">Anne Carroll Moore</a>. Margaret was defiant because Miss Moore had chosen not to include Miss Brown's books in the NYPL's children's collection. Leonard Marcus tells the story beautifully in his wonderful book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Margaret-Wise-Brown-Awakened-Moon/dp/0688171885"><span style="font-style: italic;">Awakened by the Moon</span></a>, but, in a nutshell:<br /><br />Miss Moore hosted an annual tea party at the main branch of the library for authors she supported. Margaret and her adored editor, Ursula Nordstrom, set up a tea for themselves on the library steps, which meant that all the included authors and publishers had to step right over the <em>refusées</em> in order to enter the event. Very naughty. Very Margaret.<br /><br />The 100th anniversary of Margaret Wise Brown's birthday is Sunday, May 23. I'll bring cupcakes if you'll come out to sing Happy Birthday on the steps of the New York Public at 2PM. Isn't it the least we can do for her? And wouldn't she have loved it?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S-N78Zw60vI/AAAAAAAAAe8/9rJMKGrkIIk/s1600/New_York_Public_Library_v1_460x285.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 341px; height: 211px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S-N78Zw60vI/AAAAAAAAAe8/9rJMKGrkIIk/s200/New_York_Public_Library_v1_460x285.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468350650196349682" border="0" /></a><br /><em><br /></em>Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-12953501853675059192010-04-23T17:18:00.006-04:002010-04-23T17:40:32.062-04:00Poetry Friday: Too big to fail<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S9ISZkxQI7I/AAAAAAAAAek/_De4yeuVjoY/s1600/wild_flower_meadow_panorama.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 424px; height: 178px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S9ISZkxQI7I/AAAAAAAAAek/_De4yeuVjoY/s320/wild_flower_meadow_panorama.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463449528530117554" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />With the presidential Marine 1 helicopter chopping its blades over our offices yesterday, Earth Day didn't feel very green here at Sanford Greenburger. Obama was on his way to scold Wall Street at nearby Cooper Union. Sirens blared, traffic snarled.<br /><br />But then I received this beautiful message in an email from poet and novelist George Ella Lyon, and the two worlds grafted together.<br /><br /><br />THE MEADOW DOES NOT KNOW <br /><br /><br />about the stock market.<br /><br />Today she is worth<br /><br />exactly what she was worth<br /><br />yesterday, a year ago, at creation.<br /><br />I don’t mean property value,<br /><br />taxable assets. I mean<br /><br />milkweed and copper moths<br /><br />honeybees, cow vetch,<br /><br />king snakes.<br /><br />Meadow life<br /><br />is not money.<br /><br />What rises<br /><br />and falls here are stems<br /><br />and flowers, leaves and fruit.<br /><br />No zigzag line of profit and panic<br /><br />but the great wheel turning.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S9IR1E3-y_I/AAAAAAAAAec/uxGdgMF6YXQ/s1600/pear-grafting.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 191px; height: 228px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S9IR1E3-y_I/AAAAAAAAAec/uxGdgMF6YXQ/s320/pear-grafting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463448901493115890" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Here God gives of her<br /><br />extravagance and here, like<br /><br />flicker, viceroy, dragonfly<br /><br />we come into our inheritance.<br /><br /> -- <span style="font-style: italic;">Earth Poems</span>, George Ella LyonBrenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-55617445507396138662010-04-15T21:36:00.005-04:002010-04-15T22:02:34.099-04:00Acts of God<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S8fCl14uLLI/AAAAAAAAAeU/mOWa_IA3w1c/s1600/iceland-volcano-ash-eruption-flights-cancelled_18958_600x450.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S8fCl14uLLI/AAAAAAAAAeU/mOWa_IA3w1c/s320/iceland-volcano-ash-eruption-flights-cancelled_18958_600x450.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460547028585950386" border="0" /></a><br />Today was the closest we'll ever get to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zicgut4gpwU"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Devil Wears Prada</span></a> at Sanford Greenburger. Volcanic ash engulfed European skies -- just as the <a href="http://www.thebookseller.com/news/116491-ash-cloud-downs-flights-ahead-of-london-book-fair.html">London Book Fair</a> was about to begin. So as some of us were assiduously attending to our clients' needs (i.e., glumly going about our business as our fellows dashed off abroad), others were madly canceling flights, rebooking through Bournemouth, through Glasgow, through Paris, through the Chunnel, via Liverpool, over land, sea, air, foam. I'm not sure whether my colleagues actually will make it to London, but they gave it their all, trying to get there.<br /><br />Our newest hire, dewy-eyed Rachael, observed wonderingly: "At my last job, they would have said the volcano was my fault!" It's good to know that in book publishing, at least, we can't resort to flying on Donatella's private jet, and sometimes must stand aside as God and Nature, in all their glory, have their way.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-37362673832182303102010-04-13T22:31:00.003-04:002010-04-13T22:36:12.275-04:00My new favorite bar in New York<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S8Up2x6HwhI/AAAAAAAAAeM/D85PDGE7nlE/s1600/Forum1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 256px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S8Up2x6HwhI/AAAAAAAAAeM/D85PDGE7nlE/s320/Forum1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459816144343384594" border="0" /></a><br />Because they carded me tonight.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2907671790485929520.post-86143674099094012942010-04-06T21:31:00.008-04:002010-04-07T21:49:09.432-04:00The Mozart Season rises again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S7viuflhglI/AAAAAAAAAd8/oJpq_D-hf-U/s1600/phoenix.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S7viuflhglI/AAAAAAAAAd8/oJpq_D-hf-U/s200/phoenix.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457204661870232146" border="0" /></a><br />Do you know about the <a href="http://www.childlitassn.org/">Phoenix Award</a>? I have to admit, shamefully, that I did not -- until tonight. Tonight, Virginia Euwer Wolff was named the recipient of the 2011 Phoenix Award for her glorious novel, <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9780312367459-3">The Mozart Season</a>.<br /><br />Could there ever be a better reason for giving a prize than this one? Here is the citation:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The Children's Literature Association Phoenix Award is presented annually to the author of a children's or young adult book, originally published in English twenty years earlier, that did not win a major award at the time of its publication. The award recognizes works of high literary merit and lasting significance.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S7vi1WNvz6I/AAAAAAAAAeE/YwUcwanTzLs/s1600/n308878.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q_NEHOdbAlM/S7vi1WNvz6I/AAAAAAAAAeE/YwUcwanTzLs/s200/n308878.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457204779613671330" border="0" /></a>Jinny Wolff is almost pathologically modest, so I will crow on her behalf. The Mozart Season is a book that bears reading and re-reading. (So great was my respect for her novel that I'd clean my apartment on druggy St. Mark's Place -- vacuum even! -- before I'd allow myself to open her manuscript and read her sentences.) Read it if you have a chance.<br /><br />Hats off to the 2011 Children's Literature Association committee for their far-sighted choice; three cheers for the 17-year-old boy who composed that stunning violin concerto; and kudos to the brilliant Virginia Euwer Wolff for writing a book that will rise again and again.Brenda Bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02437015911511039210noreply@blogger.com9