Either James Ellroy has gone completely around the bend or he thought it would be fun to mess with Deborah Solomon. Actually, there’s a third possibility: he’s gone completely around the bend and he’s messing with her. A few snippets from the New York Times Magazine’s Q&A:

What about more contemporary forms of expediency, like the anti-terrorism measures practiced by the Bush administration?

I do not follow contemporary politics. I live in a vacuum. I don’t read books. I don’t read newspapers. I do not own a TV set or a cellphone or a computer. I spend my evenings alone, usually lying in the dark talking to women who aren’t in the room with me.

…

Do you think of yourself as a novelist or as a crime writer?

I am a master of fiction. I am also the greatest crime writer who ever lived. I am to the crime novel in specific what Tolstoy is to the Russian novel and what Beethoven is to music.

How do you know since you say you don’t read other books?

I just know. There is a line from a wonderful Thomas Lux poem: “You’re alone and you know a few things.” I just know that I am that good.

He also calls Raymond Chandler “overrated,” claims he’s better than Hammett, and says his schtick isn’t an act. One thing I’m certain is true: he definitely spends his evenings alone.

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Just call him Lance Armstrong. Jonathan Littell has won France’s top literary prize, the Prix Goncourt–the first American to do so–for his book Les Bienveillantes (”The Kindly Ones”).

The cash award? About $12.50. But the book, which already won the Academie Francaise Grand Prix du Roman, should enjoy a slight sales boost. According to Bloomberg:

French sales of the book, originally forecast at 12,000, have already pushed up toward 280,000. English rights to the book have been sold in the U.S. to News Corp.’s HarperCollins and in the U.K. to Chatto & Windus, an imprint of Bertelsmann AG’s Random House. German rights to the book have been sold to Berlin Verlag.

Jonathan Littell is the son of Robert Littell, just in case you were wondering, although he sent the novel out under the pseudonym “Jean Petit.”

Likely Stories has been unable to confirm reports that Jonathan Littell, an intensely private man, has been seen wearing a “LIVESTRONG” wristband.

I just hope he’s prepared for the doping allegations.

I filed my review of Walter Mosley’s new book, Killing Johnny Fry, this morning. Mosley’s well known for his crime fiction, and he’s also written science fiction, political essays, and the odd work of general fiction, but Killing Johnny Fry represents a completely new direction for him. How new? The book is subtitled “A Sexistential Novel,” which gave me an inkling. Between the noiresque title and the, um, unusual subtitle, I figured I was in for some erotic noir, or noir erotica.

And that was almost true. Killing Johnny Fry has a framing device appropriate to crime fiction, and a storyline that suggests literary aspirations, but what I will remember most are the wall-to-wall, gratuitously detailed sex scenes. It was as if Henry Miller had been reincarnated and freed from his remaining inhibitions.

Now, most people who want to read erotica probably like to read it alone, perhaps curled up in bed with a glass of wine. One likes to be alone to commune with one’s…thoughts…when reading material of a provocative nature. But reading books is my job. I have tight deadlines. I don’t have the luxury of reading books a chapter at a time in the time and place of my choosing.

And so I read Killing Johnny Fry on the bus, barely opening the pages, peering in between them as if into a dark canyon, all to keep the rider next to me from wondering what kind of pervert reads graphically detailed, wildly inventive accounts of sex at eight o’clock in the morning.

I read it at my desk, while I ate my lunch, trying to maintain a professional demeanor while inwardly I was thinking, She did WHAT to WHO with the WHAT?

And I read it at home, while my two-year-old danced to “Philadelphia Chickens” and my six-month-old tried to eat Duplo bricks and I struggled to keep myself grounded amidst the incongruities.

After all, it’s my job. Sometimes I read about teenagers who grow up on ranches, and sometimes I read about, um, unusual couplings of people who, erm, use unusual devices in, ah, unusual ways. Just another day at the office. And elsewhere.

Sure, you say. Nice excuse. Saying you read it for work is like saying you read Playboy for the articles. Which reminds me of a friend of mine who wrote a funny article for a local weekly, about reading Playboy in public. It’s sold in public, he reasoned, why don’t you ever see anyone reading it? So he read it on the bus, at the barber’s–I forget all the places–surreptitiously documenting the reactions of onlookers.

Playboy magazine thought it was pretty funny, so they reprinted it. It was a nice way for him to meet some people. A little while later, he was working at Playboy.com.

I thought this was a brilliant career move. As for myself, I had always harbored dreams of working at The New Yorker. So I started reading The New Yorker in public. I read it on buses, at the barber, in restaurants–all over the place. I wrote up a funny piece about how I was brave enough to read The New Yorker in public and sent it to them, but I’m still waiting for the return e-mail.

If they don’t go for it, I’m guessing that it’s because they don’t want to look like they’re copying Playboy.

The snobs.

It’s not easy to found your own holiday.

One of my favorite books is McGoorty: The Story of a Billiard Bum, by Robert Byrne (Lyle Stuart, 1972). Danny McGoorty was an old-time, hard-drinking, unreconstructed billiards player–billiards, not pool, he would be sure to point out if he were still alive. Pool is a game played with nine to fifteen balls on a table with six pockets, while billiards is a game played with three balls on a table with no pockets. Billiards (or “three-cushion”) predates pool (which was dubbed “pocket billiards” only in an attempt to make it more respectable) and was once the more popular of the two. Nowadays, though billiards remains popular in Asia, Europe, and Latin America, it can be tough to find a table in the U.S.

(It’s a sad irony that later editions of McGoorty were subtitled A Pool Room Hustler, which, although technically correct–poolrooms once contained tables for both games, and sometimes even snooker–is still completely wrong.)

I love cue games and once chronicled my attempts to better my pool playing as a columnist for Billiards Digest. And, though I love the game for its fascinating and confounding physics, I was, like most people, first drawn to it by things that had nothing to do with how it’s played. I liked the way poolrooms tended to be dark, quiet rooms dotted by bright islands of green. I liked the sounds of the game, the click and roll of the balls, the slang of the old-timers. And of course, I was fascinated by its seedy reputation.

Robert Byrne met Danny McGoorty near the end of McGoorty’s life, talked him into telling his story, and wrote down the results. It’s a rollicking and completely unexpurgated journey through a byegone era. If anyone is ever fooled by sepia-toned photographs into thinking that the past was a more innocent time, they’ll change their minds after they read McGoorty. If anything, they’ll think that our society is much more prim and rulebound now.

About ten years ago, I got a first edition of McGoorty and read it straight through. So much did I want to identify with this unapologetic billiard bum that I decided to make every November 1–I now can’t even remember whether that was the day of his birth or his death, but I’m guessing the latter–a holiday: McGoorty Day. Every November 1, I decided, I would spend the entire day in a poolroom, drinking and playing pool. (Yes, it should have been billiards, but I had to draw the line of verisimilitude somewhere–also, I’m the worst three-cushion billiards player in the world.)

The problem with making the first day of the month your holiday is that you don’t notice it until you turn the calendar page over. And if you’re like me, you often don’t turn it over until a few days into the new month, at which point you’re left to slap your forehead and curse at the missed opportunity. Because you can’t celebrate McGoorty Day on November 3rd. It’s November 1st.

My problem with calendars is ongoing. And, of course, once I got a regular job, and then had kids–well, at this point I can barely remember how much fun McGoorty Day is. (Somewhere in between the Fourth of July and Festivus.) I only did it up right once or twice. After that, every year, I told myself, “Next year I’ll do it for sure.”

I wish I could report that this was the year I got my act together–or let it fall apart, depending on your point of view. I wish I could write that the reason I didn’t update the blog on Wednesday was that I was at Chris’s Billiards, running racks between sneaky pulls off my hip flask. Alas, I was here in the office, posting fresh November 1 content to Booklist Online.

But I refuse to take McGoorty Day off the calendar. Because one of these years, damn it, I’m going to observe it again. It’s never too late for a misspent youth.

Fresh from his victory lap after winning the Frank O’Connor Short Story Award, Haruki Murakami has won the Franz Kafka Prize. From the Japan Times:

Murakami is the sixth recipient of the award. Past winners include Philip Roth of the U.S., Ivan Klima of the Czech Republic and Peter Nadas of Hungary. In the last two years, Austrian novelist, playwright and poet Elfriede Jelinek and British playwright Harold Pinter were chosen for the prize shortly before they won the Nobel Prize for literature.

From the Daily Yomiuri:

At a press conference held prior to the award ceremony, attended by about 60 reporters, Murakami said with a smile, “This is the first press conference of my life and it may also be the last one.”

The first-ever Dylan Thomas Prize goes, fittingly enough, to a Welshwoman.

Welsh author Rachel Trezise has been named the winner of the first £60,000 EDS Dylan Thomas Prize for her collection of short stories Fresh Apples, published by Parthian. The new international prize of over $100,000 will be awarded biennially to writers in English under 30 years of age and is one of the world’s largest literary prizes.

That’s a lot of cash. At the after-party, Trezise shocked onlookers by climbing on top of the bar and shouting, “I’ve had 18 straight whiskies, I think this is a record!”

Just kidding.

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