Our man in Boston puts the mighty Charles Yu in the ragtop and interrogates him over his background, dystopian fiction, lawyering for a day job, his lack of a creative writing graduate degree, Apple thingies, and why economists operate under pen names.
The sign industry is making a comeback, restoring brush and paint into our contemporary landscape of sameness. From the new book Sign Painters, portraits of America’s best sign painters and their work, with an essay by artist (and former sign painter) Ed Ruscha.
After resigning in disgrace from the charity he helped found and losing his sponsorship with Nike, Lance Armstrong now must cope with the leak of his new memoir—excerpted here.
From 2:00 to 2:30 p.m. ET today, tell the Biblioracle the last five books you’ve read, and he’ll recommend your next favorite novel.
We continue our series of publishing contemporary Russian literature in translation—stories you won’t find anywhere else, unfortunately—with a novelist who turns Mr. and Mrs. Nabokov into objects of captivation. Don’t miss out on your chance to win a gift card from Powells.com.
Our man in Boston sits down with Martin Amis for their sixth chat to discuss Nabokov, dictionaries, spiteful reviews, the death of Christopher Hitchens, and the freedom of writing fiction.
Everyone says they’ve got a book inside, but hundreds of people actually write them—and are preyed upon by scam artists. The greatest story of literary vigilantism ever told.
What was the book about? A little girl who had very bad parents and had the power of controlling things with her mind. She was very intelligent and was adopted...
Read between the lines of a to-do list, and you’ll find an artfully constructed maze of excuses. A challenge to complete five things before the end of summer, or before you die—whichever comes first.
What was the book about? It’s about three children who are raised in the woods by wolves, and then they’re found and brought back to a...
Our man in Boston talks with writer Ron Rash about his latest book, America’s great regional voices, the high percentage of readers in New Zealand and Australia, and the misery that accompanies putting a novel together, where it’s rather more fun to stick pencils in your eyes.
Stunt memoirs are ubiquitous: writers who eat, pray, and love straight into their bank accounts. But what happens when the material for your book—for which you took a dozen amusement park jobs to acquire—isn’t all hijinks and zany locals? What if it’s rather nice?