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Monday, December 16, 2013 at 11:17AM 
Christmas Reading
by DICK CHENEY
It's always nice to cuddle up in an armchair that encircles me completely like a lover, holding in my clunky hands an e-reader stained with the juices of avocados, imported grapes and that tetanus shot. In those moments time itself stands still, and I am brought back to a familiar yet unfamiliar moment — that of being in the womb.
Real books made of paper hold little interest for me now, but I understand that for others they remain a novelty. Instead of looking at the binded paper as simply a conduit for information, I now purely view it as a material good, like a dinner bell, a caftan, or a PlayStation 4. I was not paid for any of the recommendations I make here, or even slightly encouraged. If you're going to accept amoral blings and blangs for your tactfulness, make sure it's from an oil company.
Sometimes when I'm in the only hipster coffee shop in Wyoming, trolling for people to hand out "flyers" for my "lost dog" as a means of getting their fingerprints, I see what people are actually reading. Everytime I see the name Jonathan Franzen on a spine I want to cry out, but instead I just bing Michael Chabon divorce and hope today will be different.
As a status symbol, a physical book is better than a crown I suppose. People still like to receive them, it would seem, so I have written down some options for your loved ones. But if you do find a woman or feminine-looking man that you really want to impress, don't give her a book, give her a Sea-Doo watercraft. She'll leap on you like your blouse is on fire.
Compared to Ugly Duckling Presse, every other independent press is gross and weird. Ugly Duckling's Brooklyn location publishes fine poetry and prose in the loveliest imaginable editions, and unlike the kickstarter you funded for a book featuring all of Chip Kidd's sketches of penises, the end product is sure to find your door. Moreover, your lady friend to be will be reminded of you all year, and not just of vague texts like, "Ur my orange peel," none of that, just exquisite poetry to shake the rafters. The only man who did not have to continually remind a woman of his greatness was David Ben-Gurion. A base membership is only $60.
Emily Books is well on its way to becoming the premiere book-of-the-month club for women in America. (I think once or twice they chose a book by a man, but it was not very well received.) The idea for the club, born in Emily Gould's kitchen or finished basement, consisted of the possibility that women could be taught to think less of their partners by specific movements in literature. Once you see Keith Gessen's chest hair up close though, it's very hard to think badly of men. But seriously, these young women have exquisite taste in books, and when I see Lynne curled up with the latest Scott Turow I kind of wince. Turning me onto the magnificent writing of Rebecca Brown was merely their opening act. If only Park Slope had been around when I was looking for a wife. Joining Emily Books is so cheap too you guys, I mean Emily was pretty nice to you, why can't you support her thing?
The club's December pick was its most inspired so far. Elena Ferrante's The Days of Abandonment mixes the two intellectual concepts I find most attractive in other people — a contagious sadness and the possibility of humor in any moment.
But yes, actual books, not just pathetic jokes about people who are actually interested in them. The New York Review of Books began their own subscription club fairly recently, although none of their fall titles really rustled my jimmies. Spring 2014 looks a lot more promising, as the label brings out Hillel Halkin's exciting translation of Eli Amir's The Dove Flyer, which you can find elsewhere if you're impatient. Halkin is not only the best translator of Hebrew alive, he may be the finest in any language besides Lydia Davis. (Her Proust remains the iconic gift for a gay man in love.) The new season also promises On Being Blue by William Gass and an erotic collection of the poems of A.K. Ramanujan.
New Directions is still an exciting and eclectic publisher, even if they seem to be focused on the discursiveness of the past rather than the present. This year they offer two volumes completely suitable for the other person in your life. Imagine how happy her face will be when instead of displaying that engagement ring, you give her ND's marvelous release of the Emily Dickinson envelope poems, The Gorgeous Nothings, with an essay by the poet Susan Howe. I think it might be sold out, so go with God/Margaret Atwood and consider Takashi Hiraide's feline novel The Guest Cat and the long-awaited collected poems of Denise Levertov. They make magical gifts as well.
Have you ever felt that 90 percent of the people in the world were named Molly or Emily? You're not alone.
Ever since I wrote my now legendary teardown of Fox's fetid show Almost Human, publishing companies have been sending me the latest science fiction, although nothing by Peter Hamilton, since I don't have anything close to that amount of time on my hands. Major standouts include the beautifully crafted custom editions provided by the best niche press in publishing, William Schafer's Subterranean Press. If I had an unlimited amount of money I would buy all of the Michigan press' lettered and limited editions (you can usually request your LE number, I routinely pick 69 for giggles). Especially popular has been a lively and bright new version of The Shining. Gift editions are still available according to the publisher, who I badger on gchat constantly by reiterating how much The Dark Tower sucks.
A new anthology by George R.R. Martin and the equally rotund Gardner Dozois entitled Dangerous Women feels a bit hastily slapped together, as if the best writers in the field were busy trying to put more sex in their novels and this is what was left. Still, at $20 this makes a nice coffee table book for your new girlfriend, or if you're feeling generous, her earthy daughter. Try not to laugh when the top google search result for 'dangerous women' is now a book edited by two dangerously obese men.
A better choice would be Gene Wolfe's new Kafka paean The Land Across, which features feuding magicians, a mediocre dictatorship, treasure hunting and a fairly long prison stay squeezed in there as well. Wolfe's recent novels are almost all dialogue, making them perfect for any travel that doesn't have an ending destination in Eastern Europe. After reading about the land, you will not want to go there anytime soon.
The Land Across was almost the best book I read from this year (it came out over Thanksgiving) but it was not the best book I read from this year. (Well, Morrissey's autobiography was stellar too, did you perchance know he was sad?)
That honor goes to Eleanor Catton's The Luminaries, winner of the Man Booker Prize. One time I promised Lynne I would spend the entire day speaking in back cover plaudits. Lynne was "a masterpiece, a woman that any thinking person should read and enjoy," my mailman was "a key treatise...Genuinely thrilling," and my younger daughter was "Gripping; Got me in her clutches and would not let go." For some reason I feel the exact same way about anything that takes place in New Zealand or involves the name Eleanor.
Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is a writer living in an undisclosed hipster coffee shop. You can find an archive of his writing in these pages here. He last wrote in these pages about evolving at an uncontrollable pace.
For further recommendations in this field, experience:
"Beautiful Lie" - Sophie Madeleine (mp3)
"Let's Never Love" - Sophie Madeleine (mp3)
The new album from Sophie Madeleine is entitled Silent Cynic, and it was released on November 1st.
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