Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon

Archy felt blood in his cheeks, the shame of the ponderer in a world that urged decision. A deliberator nipped at and harried by the hounds of haste. Professing in his heart like some despised creed the central truth of life: The only decision a man will never regret is the one he never made.

-Telegraph Avenue

It's nice to have a history with an author, isn't it? Not just having read a lot of books by that author, but to have memories connected with them. That's how I feel about Michael Chabon. I remember picking up The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay and being so absolutely wowed by it that I emailed him. It was the kind of ridiculous, flowery email that you might expect a 19-year-old to write, and he very kindly responded. I remember taking The Mysteries of Pittsburgh with me when I went to Italy later that same year. I remember when he did a reading at my college and signed my copy of Summerland, which I had bought at the university bookstore. That's a history, I think.

When I was thinking about what I wanted to say about Telegraph Avenue, I remembered all of that. From page one, the writing was everything I could have wanted--on a sentence-to-sentence level, Telegraph Avenue is beautiful, funny, and true. Just on that first page, there's this description of Archy Stallings--"moonfaced, mountainous, moderately stoned." I didn't intend to wax rhapsodic here, but that's pretty near perfect if you ask me.

The story--of Archy and his partner Nat, their wives and kids, and their business, Brokeland Records--shares a lot of the hallmarks of other Chabon stories. There's the obsession (with vinyl here, as opposed to comics or baseball), the quirky characters (shades of Wonder Boys), the sexual exploration. I think I might have been more absorbed in the story of I'd connected to any one part of it better--jazz, Berkeley, kung fu--but I still enjoyed it. The characterization is particularly good--I'd love to have a follow-up just about Nat's son, Julie. Regardless of what Chabon does next, I'll be along for the ride.

Up next: Dead Ever After, the last of the Sookie Stackhouse novels.

Just Kids by Patti Smith

Finally, by the sea, where God is everywhere, I gradually calmed. I stood looking at the sky. The clouds were the colors of a Raphael. A wounded rose. I had the sensation he had painted it himself. You will see him. You will know him. You will know his hand. These words came to me and I knew I would one day see a sky drawn by Robert's hand.

-Just Kids 

I can't say I knew much about Patti Smith before beginning Just Kids. I could have picked her out of a lineup, sure, and I knew of Horses. I'm pretty sure I've heard "Gloria." That's about all I had.

And I wouldn't have done much better with Robert Mapplethorpe, frankly, despite having majored in Art History. I knew photographs of flowers, and knew of some others that were somehow scandalous (though I don't know if I saw any slides of those ones, to be honest). I knew he'd died young.

So there was a lot to take in in Just Kids, which traces the relationship Smith and Mappelthorpe had, both romantic and artistic. It's also a portrait of New York City at a very particular time, a time of The Factory and the Hotel Chelsea and automats. I warmed quickly to Smith, but I especially loved reading about the city--a place I know--in a totally new way. It was really amazing to watch how Smith grew as an artist, from poet to rock and roll star, and how she encountered all the bright lights of that era in New York.  I loved hearing about her place in Brooklyn, about her going to Blick's Art Supply, about the bare-bones spaces she shared with Mapplethorpe in Chelsea (no bathroom, for one). In addition to recounting her history with Mapplethorpe quite beautifully, she also captures a moment in time. And I must say, I got teary when I read the passage I quoted above.

Up next: Almost nearly caught up! Drop Dead Healthy by A.J. Jacobs, which I just finished this afternoon.