4. Joe Gould’s Secret by Joseph Mitchell
5. The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks

These two would seem to have little in common except that (very broadly) they’re both portraits of eccentric characters (one real, one fortunately quite fictional). But they’re also both books I got for Christmas from the same folks, albeit years apart, and they’ve both sat unread for no good reason until now. Thank you, 50 book challenge!



Joe Gould’s Secret reprints two articles from the New Yorker, both profiles of the same man, written 20 years apart. The first, shorter piece is a lighthearted “Oh, those kooky Village bohemians” take on Gould, a Harvard graduate and street person who lives on the generosity of his artsy friends while he works feverishly on “The Oral History,” an endless series of composition notebooks totaling millions of words worth of essays, observations and transcribed conversations. Although no one has read it in its entirety, or even close to it, many believe it to be an important work, and bits and pieces of it have appeared in small literary magazines. When not working on the book, Joe likes to crash parties in the Village and do seagull imitations or recite doggerel or anything else that will garner him attention.

The second piece, written after Gould’s death, is more of a regretful “let’s cut through the blarney” take on the same man. Many of the same events and anecdotes recur, but with a new perspective. Ol’ Joe doesn’t seem quite so loveable, and the Oral History may not be all it’s cracked up to be. I wouldn’t want to say more than that, except that this is a must-read for all writers and other creative types who get a particularly nasty shudder from the scenes involving R. Crumb’s housebound brother in Crumb or the “all work and no play” scene from The Shining.

Feel free to skip the Stanley Tucci movie, which I saw after finishing the book. It just gets every single thing completely wrong.



Here’s a nasty little tale, a violent, sometimes stomach-churning and often blackly comic first person account of life on a dreary Scottish isle. Our narrator Frank livens up his days by blowing up rabbits, feeding wasps into his elaborate factory o’ death, drinking down at the pub with his dwarf friend, and occasionally murdering a close relative. I’m surprised this never became a David Cronenberg movie – it shares the horror of the body and general organic ickiness with much of his work. In fact, there are several plot twists very much in keeping with the trend in today’s movies, so I suppose it’s not too late. I can’t say this was particularly deep or moving, but it was definitely a creepy read.