The Thousand Autumns of My Great Big Author Crush

A fan in the corner of the packed Three Lives David Mitchell* reading last night said out loud what we were all thinking: "I don't know anyone who has read your work who isn't in love with you."

It's okay to talk about him openly here, guys and gals. Last night he admitted that he doesn't Google himself because he's heard it can make you go blind. (Cheeky.) But we know we all love David Mitchell. I've had a crush on the author ever since I pulled Ghostwritten off the shelves because its cover looked like a My Bloody Valentine album cover. As soon as I cracked the spine and saw that first line —

Who was blowing on the nape of my neck?

— it was all over. I've read everything ever since. My fellow bloggers are especially enamored: Jessica Stockton Bagnulo is a long-time fan, and Ed Champion even named his literary podcast, The Bat Segundo Show, after the shock jock in Ghostwritten.

I've never known an author with such a devoted, gooey-eyed following.

Back in 2004 when I went to see Mitchell read for the first time from Cloud Atlas at Three Lives (which Mitchell last night referred to as his "American living room," or "to use the acronym, u sofa"), I met a woman from England named Sam. We sat in the corner, just next to the stool where Mitchell would soon be perched, his forehead tapping against the lamp overhead as he cooed out Sloosha's dialect. Sam and I got to talking while we waited, and I soon discovered that she felt exactly the same way I did about Mr. Mitchell. The two of us giggled and blushed in the corner over how excited we were. She said "I've never been to a reading before. Not just anyone can get me out of bed."

It's hard to explain this to people who haven't read his fiction. What he writes is both charming and mystically complex. Each word seems to be more carefully chosen than the next. Seeing him read in person just heightens the reverence: his voice is soothing, but he sounds genuinely excited to be in your presence. He truly wants to connect to every single person in the crowd, and let them in on the beauty of what words sound like. And they are crowds. I can't remember another reading so packed.

Good book readings are intimate, funny, short but sweet. When you leave, you feel like you know the author better, and it adds something to the reading of their work. Sometimes there is alcohol involved. The best can even make it humorous. Sherman Alexie can do this. Gary Shteyngart can do this. David Mitchell, you bet, can do this.

There's little point to this post, really, other than to get you to join our club. David Mitchell writes good books, and gives good readings. He'll be reading tonight at 7pm from his latest, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, at Bookcourt in Brooklyn, and tomorrow night the fantastic Greenlight Bookstore in Fort Greene is throwing him a party.

Go. Read. Crush out with the rest of us. Just remember this: I saw him first.

*Not to be confused with the comedian, who is also British, and also lovely.

(Solipsistic, rambling addendum: Is it possible that in spite of not Googling himself, he's read this blog? At the end of last night's reading, all of us sweaty and numb-legged from being crushed into the tiny, perfect space together, Mitchell decided to wrap things up, saying it was so hot he must have "a Rorschach print" on his back. I'm on to you, Mitchell.)

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

Lynx: Keeping the kids happy, since 1994

Is anyone still using Unix?

• Oh yeah. All Mitchell, all the time. More Hay Festival coverage (apparently, huge this year, proper Glasto huge) at The Guardian.


• On many a night, The Husband or I will look at the other with a twinkle of the eye, and say "let's put Freaks and Geeks on." This is the one show that consistently makes me laugh and cry, the best thing to happen (and then suddenly unhappen) to television in years. In this Wired article (longer than the one that appeared in the magazine), the creators discuss its genius.


• Pop Matters reviews Ian McEwan's latest, On Chesil Beach, which I just finished enjoying. Though McEwan's topics may sometimes sound uninteresting on first description, the way he executes them is phenomenal.


• Set your DiVo: Cormac McCarthy's first ever television interview on Oprah June 5th. I'm slightly scared of what will happen to this country when hundreds of thousands of women suddenly pick up The Road and read about this post-apocalyptic nightmare all at once. If you need anything that comes in a can, you're best off getting it now. (via TEV)


• I've secretly been enjoying the LOLcats craze. Even better: LOLkids.

Update: I nearly forgot... The best novels you've never read, according to New York magazine (via largehearted boy). One of these is by a college acquaintance of mine, Jesse Ball. I knew he was publishing a novel, but I had no idea it was already out... (Quick check: not out until September 2007.) Can't wait, Jesse.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

Only crushes make me post this late at night

There's a new David Mitchell story featured in The Guardian. My Friday night exhaustion is telling me it will make for perfect Saturday morning reading.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

Links: The Underbelly Edition

This weekend I'm finally off to do battle with my bicycle, armed with a wire brush and a can of WD-40. I'm drawing up battle plans, rolling out the maps. Or spreading out the newspapers, rather. While I scratch the rusty underbelly of my future sweet ride, you should enjoy the following web manna.

• David Mitchell makes Time Magazine's list of 100 men and women who "shape our world". A world shaped like David Mitchell? Let's go roll in the grass. (via Ed)


• An old link lurking in my to-be-written-about file: What's on your shelves? Mine is bared (born? barren?) for all to see in the right-hand column of this page, but it only lists the ones I've read and kept. What you won't see there - apart from the stacks upon endless stacks of books I'm waiting to read - is my oversized collection of 1970s teen fiction with titles like I Can Stop Anytime I Want and Angel Dust Blues, as well as the SAS Survival Guide I keep stowed away in my bedside table. Draw your own conclusions.


• 3hive is hosting a Charlotte Gainsbourg mp3 from her new album. It's lovely... and like a child dancing on the shoes of her father, oh so "Bonnie and Clyde." (A compliment, I swear.)


• Another reason I could never become a farmer: Why I Shot My Lamb.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

Linkity linkity linkity

• Joan Didion examined. That's it. There is officially a Joan Didion head growing out of my neck now.


• Hemingway and Dietrich letters: "my little Kraut." (via the Guardian blog's Sam Jordison. I thought I could develop a crush on the guy, whose blog entries always appear with the same picture of him looking bashful on some beach. I don't need another crush; The Husband already fears me running off with David Mitchell. Thankfully, then, I discovered that Mr. Jordison edited Crap Towns, a book we perused on one rainy day in the South of France, and which upset us with its inclusion of both our beloved and unfortunately-named Crouch End and our even more beloved Liverpool in the list of the 50 worst places to live in Britain. Oh, Sam. It would never work between us.)


• I didn't know Clive James wrote for Slate. Last week, he profiled Dubravka Ugresic, admitting he hasn't read her novels. I've read two of her novels, but little of her journalism. Perhaps it's time.


• This is what I imagine the apartment of a grown-up Ricky "Silver Spoons" Stratton would look like. Giant screwdriver, neon guitar, and all.


• I thought this article on Joshua Bell attempting to get people to stop and listen to his music in a busy D.C. metro station was quite beautiful. Or maybe it's just my new weakness for Bach. (via kottke)


• Also beautiful, 3191, two women posting pictures from their mornings, 3,191 miles apart. One of the most soothing sites I have visited lately. (via dooce)


• I still miss John Peel.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.