Thoughts on Books I Read This Year Pt. 3

dalezapata:

Levels of the Game - John McPhee

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Just perfect sports writing. McPhee captures the essence of the game and gracefully pursues the larger cultural significance of the 1968 US Open semi-finals match between Arthur Ashe and Clark Graebner. McPhee observes as the national ferment of integration and the Civil Rights Movement is distilled into a thrilling tennis match which sees Arthur Ashe’s freewheeling power game pushed to perfection by Graebner’s conservative, stolid style of play.

I think about this book pretty often.It’s clearly an influence on David Foster Wallace, and one can see that come to bear in DFW’s essay “Democracy and Commerce at the US Open” (not available online, but collected in Both Flesh and Not). McPhee’s book is structured like a tennis match, and it is so expertly and elegantly executed and the subjects are so artfully and thoughtfully handled that at times the writing is actually pretty breathtaking.

I just started this and it’s perfect.


In Mr. R’s backyard:
a parked tow trailer with huge plastic barrels. Containing some kind of likely-cancer-causing hazardous waste, no doubt.
…
(via WhiskeyPaper | Drink words.)

Here’s a photo of a trailer we passed a couple months or so ago, walking through our neighborhood, that reminded me of the toxic-waste-playground of a trailer in my grandparents backyard that in part led to me writing this new story on WhiskeyPaper.
  • Camera: iPhone 5
  • Aperture: f/2.4
  • Exposure: 1/437th
  • Focal Length: 4mm

In Mr. R’s backyard:

  • a parked tow trailer with huge plastic barrels. Containing some kind of likely-cancer-causing hazardous waste, no doubt.

(via WhiskeyPaper | Drink words.)

Here’s a photo of a trailer we passed a couple months or so ago, walking through our neighborhood, that reminded me of the toxic-waste-playground of a trailer in my grandparents backyard that in part led to me writing this new story on WhiskeyPaper.

driftlikeworriedfire:

tahoma calls
it’s waitin’ there to get rid of us all
when the big one comes better pray the car don’t stall

better hop on in
the pass will close if the clouds start rollin’ in
can’t take the thought of bein’ stuck again

We called him Mr. R because he was creepy and we’d just had to read To Kill a Mockingbird in class that year. “That’s like your neighhhhhbor,” Chad whispered to me, after the class where we’d been introduced to Boo Radley, Radley getting soon shortened to Mr. R, for fear of something, him, hearing us and knowing what we meant, and also just because we were young and it seemed fun and cool to have code names and secrets.