Have you ever read something and thought, “This is not writing.”? I’d like to hear about it if you have.

“I’m Google,” by Dina Kelberman. I’m calling it a poem.

Ruth Fowler shits on Tea Obreht winning the Orange Prize: “Oh how I long for the days of writers like Nabokov: those who hadn’t spent five years learning how to put a fucking sentence together, but instead wrote with their guts.”

What’s the last book you reread that you had loved before? Did it hold up, get better, feel worse/different?

Visual representations of Infinite Jest objects (movie posters, tennis tourny flyers, etc.). The Quarterly Conversation dedicates a symposium to David Foster Wallace; Who Was David Foster Wallace? And Unbound is a Kickstarter for books. Oh wait: the writer of 20% of all Simpsons episodes has self-published a bunch of novels.

Best deal in town for rad literature: DALKEY SUMMER SALE. Up to 60% off and free US shipping, running through June 15th. Go.

Téa Obreht has won the Orange Prize for her debut novel The Tiger’s Wife. She is the youngest winner etc. etc. The other writers on the shortlist were Emma Donoghue,  Aminatta Forna, Emma Henderson, Nicole Krauss and Kathleen Winter.

Leon Botha, the painter and DJ who I wrote about here, has passed away.

Would you like to publish your best work online or in print or you just don’t give a fuck? Pros/Cons of whatever your answer?

In which This Recording editor Alex Carnevale tells you everything you always suspected about Roald Dahl* (*but were afraid to have confirmed). What do you think of the last sentence? Please don’t answer this question unless you read the whole damn thing.