"The hostess should think out a pleasant scheme of decoration, in harmony with the prevailing colour of the dining-room, the flowers in season, the vases and bowls at her disposal, the dress she is to wear, and even the food she will offer." 

I don’t know how this book appeared on my shelves and on picking it up in curiosity, wondering if it would be suitable to sell, the cover didn’t look very promising for a series, however loosely, hooked on book design. But I was immediately struck by the monochrome prints inside and their comic-book-inspired aesthetic. Depicting all sorts of indoor party games -- including "Lemon Golf" and "Spoon Hockey" -- these quite hilarious but rather stylish illustrations drew me into the book. The Home Entertainer is packed with how-to diagrams and design tips on "the art of successful entertaining" -- from curling celery for garnishing, and cutting "toast shapes for entrée dishes," to constructing an elaborate theatre set in the back garden, complete with footlights. 

I love the democratic, Do-It-Yourself ethos of the book, and especially Hedges’s friendly pieces of advice: "Set a high standard of taste and originality, but not of extravagance. Ostentation and extravagance show the worst of taste, but on the other hand, never apologise for, or boast of the cheapness of your party." Another amusing piece of advice, Hedges’ outré suggestions on matching the colour of food, dress, and decorative scheme really encapsulate the design consciousness of the book. The notion of the decorative scheme as a total work of art also reminded me of the controlling tendencies of the architect Frank Lloyd Wright, who created a whole new wardrobe for one of his clients, so that her clothes would harmonise with the house he had designed.  

Above all, the comic-book style images and the emphasis on DIY reminded me of a magazine launched in the 1950s called The Practical Householder. I recently picked up a complete collection of these magazines, a series responding to the growing popularity of the Do-It-Yourself philosophy and, indeed, to the coining of that phrase. The covers are fabulous, brightly coloured depictions of contemporary 1950s interiors, following the same couple as they embark, often with a cigarette or pipe artfully balanced, on a different exploit in home improvement each month. On the cover of a 1957 issue, which I’m now regretting having sold, the living room is festooned with garlands and balloons, the couple standing triumphant in matching party frock and tux, in front of a gleaming cocktail bar. I can only hope that they celebrated this tasteful edition to the room with a festive game of Lemon Golf.  

Such people sometimes write to me about their thoughts of suicide, and I think nothing separates me from them but luck.

Scenarios like that are what irritate me about professors who still bleat on about "the life of mind." They absolve themselves of responsibility for what happens to graduate students by saying, distantly, "there are no guarantees." But that phrase suggests there's only a chance you won't get a tenure-track job, not an overwhelming improbability that you will.

When do you think a writer crosses the line between helping a publisher sell their book and entering into a cycle destructive to their creativity?

We’ve seen writers become really unhinged last year, responding to their critics in these really embarrassing ways. Alain de Botton, Alice Hoffman, whoever else. A writer wrote one of my reviewers who had been critical of him and called her a “cunt.” That’s destructive to his creativity, because if I ever run into him, I am going to tear out his throat with my teeth.

On one occasion, she was slightly annoyed to read some comments by Antonia Fraser in a newspaper. The gist of these comments was that everyone had misunderstood the novel Rebecca. In Ms Fraser’s opinion, Rebecca was really good whereas Max was a rotter and his second wife was no good either...

“Have you read Antonia’s novel, Quiet as a Nun?” Daphne asked. When I shook my head, she continued. “Read it, and let me know what you think. I think she ought to stick to writing biographies.”

This article by Hannah Devlin about having sections of her brain turned off is not helping! I'm thinking, "Hm, I wonder how I can track down her doctor. And will my insurance cover it?"

Read: "Sex addiction is a feminist victory."

Second thought: "Is there any way I can block this site from my browser, so that I never, ever go there again?"

Speaking of the Moderns, the Brits, who were way less hot and way more spoiled (as well as being way better writers and painters), but Vivian Gornick has an essay at the Boston Review about one of them. Edward Carpenter is the subject of a new biography, and Gornick hopes it restores Carpenter to a place among the most famous of the moderns, like Goldman and Virginia Woolf.

Speaking of rhythm: If turns out to be impossible to make poetic scansion cool, rather than simply necessary, Herbert Tucker's new site, For Better For Verse, won't be to blame. There's an absurd amount of fun in marking up the feet and stresses in the poems selected.

Del Marbrook considers Leadbelly alongside Blake and George Chapman. His conclusion? More Leadbelly! Leadbelly wrote about Franklin Roosevelt, Adolph Hitler, the Scottsboro Boys, Marilyn Monroe and Howard Hughes, racism and poverty. If you had listened to his songs in his lifetime you would have known more about what was really going on than if you had stayed glued to your Philco or the ubiquitous newspapers. He was no talking head. He was doing what poets should be doing, what poets are doing: saying something some of us want desperately to hear and others of us don`t want to hear at all. (via 3am Magazine)

UbuWeb's featured resources for February are chosen by Christian Wiman, editor of Poetry. (Read Jessa's interview with Wiman in the March 2009 issue.)

The Rumpus has some lovely illustrations from a 1935 edition of Les Fleurs du mal.

Austin Kleon has started a site entirely devoted to newspaper blackout poetry. He probably has a book coming out in April or something . . . .

Spinster fear is a serious stressor. And it's not just Gottlieb. An entire industry of self-help books, sitcoms, romantic comedies, seminars, scientific studies, magazines, and Web sites are designed to pressure you about your marriagability. "Don't waste the pretty!" He's Just Not That Into You said, reminding us that our attractiveness is an asset with an expiration date. "You're more likely to be killed in a terrorist attack than get married after 40!" Newsweek famously declared. "Better have your babies now, while you still can!" yelled 60 Minutes. And in the middle of all that, one woman cried out, "Fuck this." She decided she didn't want the life of so many women — the ones buying the Gottlieb book — want: the marriage, the house in the suburbs, motherhood. She wanted something else, but she had no idea what that something else was. And that led Elizabeth Gilbert to her bathroom floor, depressed and suicidal, sobbing night after night. But I think that's what some depressive episodes are: the soul going on strike, or yelling, "Fuck this." Gilbert finally made it off the floor, got a divorce, and figured out a way to keep herself alive while she restructured her life. Being a writer, she wrote a book about it. And it sold millions and millions of copies and made Elizabeth Gilbert a household name.

Then the backlash began.

Although my favorite part is the writers' response to the Comstock laws. They were originally put in place to prohibit the distribution of information about birth control, but Comstock made it his mission to start banning books. For the sake of decency and all that. The writers organized a protest and showed up at the committee's office to read their material aloud and request immediate feedback as to whether the work is okay to go to print.

It would be nice for some brainy, witty person to come up with a suitable protest for Amazon.

Their plan was to rent a couple of cars and drive up to Cornish, find his house and deliver their message to him. This visit was to be preceded by a letter to Mr Salinger warning him of their impending visit (but leaving the date of their visit vague so that he would not know when to expect them). I read a version of their letter-an imploring manifesto asking for more of the stories that had already affected their lives so deeply.

I found this trip to be a bad idea, and I told my friend so. I recall having a spiteful little thought: that I would have preferred it if these artists had chosen some other writer, perhaps any other writer, and gone to his house to urge him never to publish anything ever again. That is a manifesto I would have enjoyed.