Bookish NYC

Sunday Quote

"To have her meals, and her daily walk, and her fill of novels, and to be left alone, was all that she asked of the gods."  

Anthony Trollope, The Eustace Diamonds

Seen on the Subway

I saw a woman in her early 30s wearing surgical scrubs and reading The Jewel in the Crown, the first book in Paul Scott's Raj Quartet (basis of the beloved 1980s TV miniseries).  

A Wall-Streeter in his 40s was reading Life, Keith Richards' autobiography, which received a VERY good review in the Times earlier this week.  

A rotund little woman in her late 50s/early 60s sported a bowl-shaped haircut, bright red reading glasses, big clunky beads, and an NPR tote bag, and was reading Little Bee by Chris Cleave.  I keep meaning to read this one, but  . . . I don't know.  I just haven't.  

Park Avenue Divorce Tales

Herewith, the first weekly vignette in my new Thursday feature:  

When I first started practicing in this field in the late 1980s, I enjoyed titillating glimpses into a lifestyle that I could not have imagined growing up in a small upstate town.  One of our clients had a Renoir hanging over the toilet in the powder room.  Another had a full-time silver polisher on his household staff.  Yet another had an entire room filled with her shoes and someone who came in twice a week to clean and polish them.  The very first client whose case I worked on as a young associate earned $20M per year -- and that was when twenty million dollars was still a lot of money!  Despite the tens of millions of dollars of assets that changed hands in that case, the settlement came down to one lapis lazuli picture frame the parties had acquired at Aspreys.  Neither party would budge -- each one wanted it.  The solution?  The lawyers, who were exhausted and exasperated after four years of litigation, ordered a duplicate from Aspreys and told each party that he/she had prevailed.  

"They were new money, without a doubt: so new it shrieked.  Their clothes looked as if they'd covered themselves in glue, then rolled around in hundred-dollar bills."  Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin.  

The Midweek Report

As I write this, just after midnight on Tuesday night, I am unwinding from tonight's Carnegie Hall concert -- the first in my "Keyboard Virtuosos" subscription -- Andras Schiff with an elegant all-Schumann program.  It's just what the doctor ordered in the thick of this hectic work week.  In keeping with the Schumann-esque mood, afterwards we had dinner at Seasonal, a terrific German/Austrian restaurant just around the block from the concert hall.  

On the reading front, I am still plodding through Proust (I wish I could say "pirouetting," or "prancing," but alas . . . ) and am overdue for a report thereon.  Next week, I promise.  Meanwhile, I am reading Too Big To Fail: The Inside Story of How Wall Street and Washington Fought to Save the Financial System -- and Themselves by Andrew Ross Sorkin.  I am quite possibly the last person among my friends to read this book, but although I'm late to the party, it lives up to its billing as the definitive account of the 2008 financial meltdown.  The best "blurb" about this book definitely comes from Tom Wolfe, who described it as " . . . a fascinating, scene-by-scene saga of the eyeless trying to march the clueless through Great Depression II."  

Object of Desire

I love this sterling-and-agate bookmark, circa 1898, available from bexfield.co.uk for  £225.  Sadly, not adaptable for use with a Kindle, but a lovely thing nonetheless.  Addendum to original post:  LizF's comment below made me realize I should have indicated the size of the bookmark:  it's TINY, only about an inch and a half to two inches long.  I have a couple of this style of bookmark at home -- both mother-of-pearl -- and if I remember I will take a photo of one actually IN a book so you can get an idea of the scale. 

Wallenberg v. Eichmann

The Envoy by Alex Kershaw caught my eye Sunday afternoon as I walked past the Crawford Doyle bookshop on Madison Avenue, where it was featured in the window.  The subtitle is: The Epic Rescue of the Last Jews of Europe in the Desperate Closing Months of World War II.   By December 1944, SS Colonel Adolf Eichmann had sent over half a million Hungarian Jews to Auschwitz.  Enter Raoul Wallenberg, a Swedish diplomatic envoy, who saved over 100,000 Jews from the Budapest ghetto by forging documents, providing safe houses, and remaining half a step ahead of Eichmann.  A thrilling, compelling, read:  

 

Sunday Quote

"The Bibliomania, or the collecting an enormous heap of books without intelligent curiosity, has, since libraries have existed, infected weak minds, who imagine that they themselves acquire knowledge when they keep it on their shelves."

Isaac Disraeli, Curiosities of Literature, 1807

Seen on the Subway

A 40-year-old guy in a business suit was reading I'm Not High (But I've Got a Lot of Crazy Stories about Life as a Goat Boy, a Dad, and a Spiritual Warrior), by Jim Breuer, a former Saturday Night Live comedian.  

A little girl, age 5 or thereabouts, and dressed in pink from head-to-toe, was reading Lilly's Purple Plastic Purse by Kevin Henkes.  

A grey-haired guy in his 50s, uneasy in a business suit, was reading Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell.  The Publisher's Weekly review on Amazon describes this Booker Prize short-listed novel as "at once audacious, dazzling, pretentious and infuriating."  

Time for a Change

For nearly a year now, every Thursday I've featured a bookish photograph -- sometimes of a posh library in someone's home, sometimes of a bookstore, sometimes of an unusual bookcase -- but I've recently happened upon a site, courtesy of Twitter, that gathers many more such intriguing photos: bookshelfporn.com.  It's terrific, and I think you'll enjoy it.  Add it to your bookmarks!  

For the foreseeable future, I'm going to focus on a different topic on Thursdays.  I've noticed in my blog stats that my page views hit the roof every time I discuss my career as a divorce lawyer, and that those posts generate a significantly greater number of comments, emails, etc.  I get similar results on Twitter.  I'm a bit bemused by this, as I make no bones about the fact that I am at best ambivalent about my work.  (Let's be honest:  I hate it.)  However, the stats don't lie -- YOU are obviously interested in it.  So, each Thursday I will feature a vignette -- a story from the front lines, as it were -- from my practice.  Don't get too excited:  There will be no celebrity name-dropping, identities will be masked to protect the guilty, and no confidential information will be revealed.  But it will be amusing.  Or informative.  Or a tad frightening.  Or perhaps all three.  Please do check in next Thursday.  

Prenuptial Perils

I am in the midst of negotiating a particularly distasteful prenuptial agreement.  (It's all romance, all the time, here at BookishNYC.)  This time I'm representing the bride-to-be, who is penniless, marrying the standard-issue investment banker.  She may be a bit naive in financial matters, but he is being very cowardly about fessing up to just how stingy he intends to be.  He keeps telling her that "the lawyers should work it out," an instruction that she then repeats to me.  Today I had to take a strong stand with her and remind her that I am not marrying the other lawyer, that neither he nor I care in any real sense what the terms of the agreement are, and that it is her fiance -- her beloved, her soulmate, her groom -- and not the fiance's attorney, who is calling the shots.  Many tears.  

It brought to mind a quote from my favorite author Anthony Trollope:  "I doubt whether any girl would be satisfied with her lover's mind if she knew the whole of it." 

Object of Desire

What's not to like -- my favorite musical era (Vivaldi, Handel, Scarlatti) and my favorite tenor.  This cd is being released in the States in November, although I believe it is already available in the U.K.:  

Brahms & Byrne

On Saturday evening I attended a terrific New York Philharmonic concert -- Brahms violin concerto (Pinchas Zukerman, soloist), and Brahms's Symphony No. 4.   My concert-going buddy, "S," has been an influential fund-raiser in the music world and so at the intermission I was lucky enough to go backstage with her and met Mr. Zukerman, at which point I became paralyzed with shyness.  Fortunately, "S" chattered away happily with "Pinky" (yes, seriously) so my jejune reaction went unnoticed.  

As I am still not quite 100% (in truth, not even 80%) after my recent bout with bronchitis, I spent most of Sunday quietly at home bracing for the upcoming work week.  I expended an embarrassing amount of time watching back-to-back episodes of the second season of In Treatment on HBO.   This is the half-hour program that stars Gabriel Byrne as psychologist Dr. Paul Weston, and takes place almost entirely in his office.  Each daily episode is devoted to a session with one of his patients, with the fifth episode each week featuring Dr. Weston's session with his own therapist, played by Dianne Wiest.  It's absorbing and sophisticated drama, and I highly recommend it.  The third season begins on October 25th.  And my interest in this series has nothing whatsoever to do with the rather attractive Mr. Byrne.  Nope.  Not at all.  

And what of reading?  This is, after all, BookishNYC:  I've finished The Finkler Question -- morosely hilarious, if that makes any sense.  I've just started The Lawyer's Secret, a Victorian-era "sensation" novel by Mary Elizabeth Braddon.  First published in the early 1860s, it tells the story of Ellinor Arden, an orphan who is named heiress of her estranged uncle's fortune, provided she marry his adopted son.  Surprise, surprise: it doesn't turn out well.  

Sunday Quote

"There is perhaps nothing that has a greater tendency to favourably or unfavourably respecting a man's future intellect, than the question whether or not he be impressed with an early taste for reading."  

--William Godwin, Of an Early Taste for Reading, 1797

Seen on the Subway

I woman of -- shall we say -- stately proportions sporting a platinum blonde crewcut, red pencilled eyebrows, and a magnificent pair of dangly silver earrings (on second thought, I'm not sure she was a female) was reading The Great Man by Kate Christensen, a novel set in the New York art world about a famous painter who dies leaving behind a wife, a mistress, and a major skeleton in the closet.  

A woman in her 40s who looked like a very competent office administrator was reading When Will There Be Good News? by Kate Atkinson.  

A guy in his 30s wearing a huge pair of Bose earphones was reading Deliver Us From Evil by David Baldacci, and another guy in his 30s was reading 61 Hours by Lee Child.  

On the Shelf

My correspondent and old friend JulieP, now living in Florida but originally from New York, called my attention to the following photos of the information desk, constructed out of recycled books, at the architecture library of Delft University (photo credit: Bridgette Meinhold):  

Booker?

I confess I had been rooting for Room to win, but I'm already engrossed in the winner: The Finkler Question, by Howard Jacobson.  I downloaded it onto my Kindle and started reading while I ate take-out sushi (spicy Titanic roll, eel cucumber roll) for dinner.   It's gloomily funny from the very first line:  "He should have seen it coming.  His life had been one mishap after another.  So he should have been prepared for this one."  

Do you plan on reading it, or have you already?  

Object of Desire

I have absolutely nowhere to wear these Stuart Weitzman red suede heels, which makes them all the more tantalizing:  

 

Hacking up a lung . . .

 . . . that's how I spent this lovely Autumn weekend.  I ventured out of the apartment a couple of times for food, Tylenol, etc., but have spent much of the past two days napping/drooling on the couch.  (I know -- pretty!)  

I did, however, manage to read Dog by Michelle Herman, a short, slight, but caustic tale of a female professor at a Midwestern university, a single transplanted New Yorker who lives a guarded, self-contained life in her little house with custom-built floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in every room.  (See the appeal?  I couldn't NOT buy this after reading that in the sample on Kindle, not to mention the five-star customer reviews . . . )   Eschewing a cat as too spinsterish, she adopts a shelter dog, names him "Phil" after Philip Roth/Philip Larkin, whose books she happens to be reading at the time, although "Phil" also happens to be the name of an old boyfriend.  NO, this is NOT one of those cliched books where the protagonist gets a dog, and then heartwarming, Lifetime-Movie-of-the-Week things begin to happen in her life, including the love of the amiable man down the block.   Yes, her life expands, but not in the predictable direction.   No less than Nobel Prize winner J.M. Coetzee provided a cover blurb for the hardcover edition saying that "Phil" -- the dog, not the ex-boyfriend -- was his favorite male character in a book lately.   I don't know about that, but it was the perfect read for a feverish, Kleenex-filled weekend.  Fortunately, my building doesn't allow pets, so don't get any ideas.  

Sunday Quote

"You can read merely to pass the time, or you can read with an overt urgency, but eventually you will read against the clock."

Harold Bloom, How to Read, and Why

Seen on the Subway

A woman with those rectangular eyeglasses that self-consciously signal "I'm an intellectual" was reading The Looming Tower: Al Qaeda and the Road to 9/11 by Lawrence Wright.  

Thursday night on the uptown 6 train I saw three female readers sitting in a row:  The first was plainly dressed but was sporting a massive glittery cocktail ring on her index finger, and was reading The Girl Who Played With Fire by Stieg Larsson.  The second woman had a pixie haircut and was reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  The third woman was reading . . . nope, sorry, NOT the third Stieg Larsson novel, but a hefty medical textbook, the title of which I couldn't quite glimpse.  

A woman wearing a disturbing amount of fleece was reading The Store by Bentley Little.   According to Amazon, this is a horror novel about the expanding influence of mega-chain stores.  I know I have been personally horrified by walking into Walmart et al. but never thought of writing a book about it.  LOL! 

Shameless Self-Promotion

I just learned I've been named one of the "Best Attorneys in America."  (I'm not sure what the criteria are for this, but I'm certain my shoes were a factor.)  Anyway, what a bitter irony that I'm apparently good at something I loathe so much.   Memo to self to buy lottery ticket tonight. 

And for those who were expecting my usual Thursday "On the Shelf" feature, here is a row of law books.  (Not that we ever use them anymore -- everything's on the computer.  They're really just decorative.) 

Reading Now . . .

A recent delivery from AmazonUK brought me the following treats, which have not yet been published in the U.S.:

Wait for Me by Deborah Devonshire (as in the Dowager Duchess of . . . ).  
The Mitford sisters seem to have become a cottage industry in the last few years, and this, the memoir of the youngest of the sisters, is a delight.  The Duchess recounts her childhood, her marriage to the then second-in-line to the Dukedom, her encounters with Hitler and JFK, the still birthsf of three of her children, her husband's struggles with alcoholism, the restoration of the great estate of Chatsworth.  This is a funny and sad and self-deprecating book, well-written and, as far as I'm concerned, exactly what the doctor ordered.  

 

 

 

 

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Blow by Blow by Detmar Blow.  Before taking her own life in 2008, aged just 48, Isabella Blow was the muse of some of fashion's most influential designers, having been an early champion of the late Alexander McQueen.  A classic (to my American eyes) English eccentric, seemingly always wearing an elaborate Philip Treacy hat, Blow led a life both exotic and conventional.  Here, her husband (to whom she was engaged a mere two weeks after meeting him)  pays tribute to Isabella in this behind-the-scenes account of the intersection between high fashion and aristocracy. 

Object of Desire

I adore this dress from British company Jaeger -- perfect with my new high-heeled Louboutin Mary Janes and black tights:  

 

Wagner, Mahler, Brahms . . .

As frequent visitors to Bookish already know from my incessant griping, last week was a bit of a nightmare at the office, and this week, frankly, is not shaping up to be much better.  I currently have a hot mess of a case in which I am giving the client advice that she then summarily rejects (OK -- that's her prerogative, but seriously, if you were paying $600 per hour wouldn't you at least consider heeding the advice of the professional in the matter?), but I can assure you when her case goes tits-up because of her failure to follow said advice, she'll still blame yours truly.  But I digress.  In the midst of all of this pointless head-banging, I had a sublime few days of music, proving that living well is, indeed, the best revenge:  

First up, last Thursday evening, was the Metropolitan Opera, for Robert Lepage's new production of Das Rheingold, the first installment of Wagner's Ring Cycle.  This season the Met will roll out Das Rheingold and Die Walkure, and next season will see the debuts of the new productions of Siegfried and Gotterdammerung.  Now, let me say right up front that I am NOT usually a Wagner kinda gal.  However, in an attempt to go outside my musical comfort zone, I snapped up tickets to this highly-anticipated new production, and I was not disappointed.  Bryn Terfel led the spectacular cast as Wotan, and James Levine has returned from a bout of ill health to pick up his baton.  Lepage (of Cirque du Soleil fame -- or infamy, depending on how you look at it) has given us a stunning set consisting of a huge "Valhalla machine" of twenty-four wide planks that run the entire depth of the stage, and shift and rotate and divide and undulate from scene to scene. I'm not giving you a very good idea of what that looks like, am I?  Let me do better:  here is a photo of the Rhine maidens (descending from the ceiling against the backdrop of the planks, raised to a vertical position and lit blue to represent the underwater Rhine where the gold is hidden):  

And here is a photo supplied by the Met of another scene:    

 And what the heck . . . here is one of Bryn Terfel as Wotan: 

(Photo: Murdock Theatre)

On Friday evening, I found myself at Avery Fisher Hall for the New York Philharmonic's performance of Mahler's 6th.  My concert-going buddy "S," who knows her way around a Mahler symphony, thought it was "the best performance of the 6th she had ever heard."  Kudos to Mr. Gilbert and the wonderful musicians of the NY Phil.  

Sunday afternoon I attended the Vienna Philharmonic's concert at Carnegie Hall, far and away my favorite NYC music venue.  Gustav Dudamel conducted the Brahms Tragic Overture, followed by Yo-Yo Ma performing Schumann's Cello Concerto in A minor.   So beautiful!  After three or four curtain calls, we were then treated to an encore by Yo-Yo Ma of the prelude to Bach's 1st Cello Suite.  The second half of the program featured Dvorak's New World Symphony.  I found it inexpressibly moving to watch this young Venezuelan conductor leading one of the most "Old World" of all orchestras, in this work featuring motifs from African American spirituals, in the very concert hall where it had its debut performance on 1893.  If you go here, you can listen to excerpts of Sunday's Dvorak and Schumann performances.  

And lest you think the Bookish NYC world is one great big whirl of high-end cultural events, I am sitting here typing this on Sunday evening while enjoying the latest episode of Hoarders.  LOL!  

 

Sunday Quote

"But the only important thing in a book is the meaning it has for you; it may have other and much more profound meanings for the critic, but at second-hand they can be of small service to you."

-- W. Somerset Maugham

Seen on the Subway

A red haired guy in his early 30s who was dressed like an IT guy (everything but the pocket protector) was reading Crude World: The Violent Twilight of Oil, by Peter Maass. 

A tall woman with Bo Derek-type braids was reading a graphic novel (I've learned to no longer use the term "comic book") with a lurid cover called God Save the Queen by Mike Carey and John Bolton.  According to Amazon, this one's about a modern-day infestation of faeries in North London, inspired, or so it seems, by a Midsummer Night's Dream. 

I also spotted a woman in her 40s reading Ian McEwan's Saturday (my favorite of his books) while sipping a giant Frappuccino.