Cutting everyone more slack, and getting really grateful. In a blog.Questions? Comments? Quiet Reservations?
My cousin Helen, who is in her 90s now, was in the Warsaw ghetto during World War II. She and a bunch of the girls in the ghetto had to do sewing each day. And if you were found with a book, it was an automatic death penalty. She had gotten hold of a copy of ‘Gone With the Wind’, and she would take three or four hours out of her sleeping time each night to read. And then, during the hour or so when they were sewing the next day, she would tell them all the story. These girls were risking certain death for a story. And when she told me that story herself, it actually made what I do feel more important. Because giving people stories is not a luxury. It’s actually one of the things that you live and die for. Neil Gaiman (via jaynestown)
Lev Grossman: The older I get the more I’m inclined to reject the kind of critical exceptionalism that literary fiction is allowed to maintain, whereby all other fiction is genre fiction, governed by conventions, and literary fiction just reflects reality. Literary fiction is a genre, too. It is governed by conventions; it just happens to be the case that one of those conventions is that it believes itself to have no conventions. (Also it believes itself to be hierarchically superior to genre fiction, a category to which it actually belongs, I would argue.) Not that there haven’t been thousands of great literary novels that have examined their own conventions. But somehow we keep forgetting that. The genre of literary fiction is always waking up and falling asleep again, over and over. This times a thousand. From a really interesting convo at Vulture between Adam Sternbergh (whose new book I keep hearing fabulous things about) and Lev Grossman. (via gwendabond)
So deep in Lev.
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