My latest book, Nothing Much Happened, is a series of essays that together create a memoir of the author. The essays cover three periods in his life: the first in Sidney Center NY, the second in Bangor, ME and the third in Amsterdam NY. The title is ironic as many forces and events impelled him towards running an antiquarian book store, and Nothing Much Happened details them. You can order the book from Amazon. While on Amazon, look at my other books also. You can find them easily by searching for Daniel Weaver in the books category.
Note: This is the first of a series of posts that will appear from time to time dealing with personal libraries, whether real or fictional.
In his short story, “The Jelly Bean,” which appears in the collection, Tales of the Jazz Age, F. Scott Fitzgerald describes Jim Powell’s bedroom above Tilly’s garage, where he works part-time, in a fictional Georgia city of 40,000 people.
“It was a cheerless square of a room, punctuated with a bed and a battered table on which lay half a dozen books—Joe Miller’s Slow Train Thru Arkansas, Lucille, in an old edition very much annotated in an old fashioned hand; The Eyes of the World by Harold Bell Wright, and an ancient prayer book of the Church of England with the name Alice Powell and the date 1831 written on the fly-leaf.” Continue reading “Jelly Bean’s Library”→
The CIA had a problem. The world’s most powerful spy agency with its own military, bigger than most militaries in the world, owed me $5.53 but couldn’t figure out how to pay me. It would take more than three years for them to solve the problem. They had toppled governments in less time.
With Ian Buruma’s Resignation NYRB goes where it has never gone before
Daniel T. Weaver
Near the end of Katherine Anne Porter’s short novel, Noon Wine, the main character, Royal Earle Thompson, recently acquitted of murder, rides around the county attempting to justify his behavior to his neighbors. At his last stop, he says to Mr. McClellan, “Well, as I reckon you happen to know, I’ve had some strange troubles lately, and, as the feller says, it’s not the kind of trouble that happens to a man every day in the year, and there’s some things I don’t want no misunderstanding about in the neighbors’ minds, so—” Continue reading “New York Review of Books Commits Intellectual Suicide”→