Hi dee ho, reader types, and welcome to the (kind of slow but that's okay) week. We found out that not only is the iPad still coming (gasp!), but Steve Jobs has okayed an official biography, which we will all distill into reasons we are not Steve Jobs. That man will endure, just like Orwell endures. Hopefully, his bio will not be mostly fantasy, like those rascally biopics, and he'll reveal his secret life, like these four secretive children's authors and not these top ten unreliable narrators.
But, as we worship Steve Jobs, we have to wonder: what is American writing? Is it that created by the Easton Ellis generation? Or that created by true lurve, like these perfect book couples? Or is it perhaps t-shirt based? On the international stage, we should laud Cuba's literary revolutionaries, and those who call to account the state of Irish literature (and those who call to account the account callers).
Well, reader types, enjoy your weekend, and try to be more dramatic next week, for round up purposes!
I've really enjoyed reading the extreme antics of writers old and Irish! Shame the living one has gone to hide out on a desert island - do you think it was something he said?
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