Books

 The epigraph to this novel is from Chretien de Troyes’s Lancelot, one of the French author’s Arthurian romances. It is fitting because The Last Westerner is a medieval romance, as well as an epic set in the American Southwest in the closing years of the 20th century. The dedication is to the author’s wife and to the late Edward Abbey, a personal friend. It is equally fitting because The Last Westerner is a western novel in setting and theme and will bring to mind other western novels such as Abbey’s The Brave Cowboy (1956) and Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses (1992). Abbey’s book is subtitled, An Old Tale in a New Time. That could be the subtitle for The Last Westerner too, and as for pretty horses, Chilton Williamson, Jr.’s novel is full of them.

The problem with the contemporary literary life, most of its observers usually agree, is that nobody at large in it does anything much except write. A century ago, your specimen male novelist could be found fighting in wars or traveling to places from which the reportage he brought back had genuine novelty. These days, alas, our man just sits at a desk and every so often looks out of the window at the teeming world beyond. The trajectory of the 21st-century novelist is as familiar – and as unavoidable – as a portrait of Taylor Swift. You grow up, you show an aptitude for literature, you start writing books and, unless something very unusual happens, you go on writing them.

Liberals are in a tizzy as usual over Pete Hegseth, our slick-haired Secretary of War. And in particular over his nonchalant attitude toward blowing Venezuelan drug boats out of the water, acting like the US is attacking the Old Man and the Sea or some bachelorette party boat instead of some highly organized narcotraficantes. That said, Hegseth did issue a bizarrely immature meme yesterday, tweeting out a fake cover of the children’s book character Franklin the Turtle called “Franklin Targets Narco Terrorists.” In it, Franklin, wearing a helmet and a gunbelt in addition to his usual protective carapace, fires an RPG and blows up a drug boat near some sort of tropical shore.

Todd Goddard opens his biography of Jim Harrison, the first since the poet’s death in 2016, with an account of a 37-course meal Harrison once consumed in France, over the course of 11 hours. Harrison composed a comic recital of the event, “A Really Big Lunch” for the New Yorker. He loved gourmet dining to the point of gout and revered alcohol as well, guzzling potent vintages in quantity. “Eat the world” was the phrase Harrison lived by, Goddard tells us, which alludes to an appetite for all existence. The cumulative effect of such global consumption is evident on the cover of Devouring Time: Jim Harrison, a Writer’s Life.

Six months after she took her own life aged 41, Virginia Roberts Giuffre’s “memoir” Nobody’s Girl, written with her professional collaborator Amy Wallace, has been published. It is bound to evoke distinct and intensified feelings in readers because the account of her suffering, coupled with the manner of her death, increases the emotional impact of the narrative.  The writing style and tone of the book feel authentic. Giuffre, who was born in 1983, uses words like “rad,” meaning awesome or cool, and “stoner dude,” to describe someone who smokes a lot of weed plus her constant reliance “on music to make the world make sense” seem very “Xennial” as late Generation Xers or early millennials are sometimes called.

Toward the end of 107 Days, Kamala Harris appears on something called The Checkup podcast. Though she was meant to be having a short interview about RFK Jr., the host suddenly asks if the then vice-president could talk on the hoof a bit about some of her star issues: healthcare costs, women’s health, and healthy meals for children. Alarmed, Harris fumbles for her “briefing sheet.” For any media appearance Harris requires one of these sheets, listing the questions to be asked and the answers to each of them. It isn’t there. After the interview she yells at her staff. The ancients used to warn that democracy would lead to the rule of silver-tongued demagogues who would promise the mob anything. In fact, it has been a good deal worse than that.