Two Last (really) BEA Items
and the "I Just Got Home" Link Roundup

One of the panels I didn't go to at BookExpo was the separate-admission political commentator clusterbomb which offered both attendees from both red and blue states plenty of options, from Donna Brazile to Linda Chavez, Maureen Dowd to P.J. O'Rourke. It was supposed to be the O'Relly/Franken brawl of this year's show, but as Kevin Nance reports, the sparks didn't fly--though there was some unfortunately timed irony:

Brazile said she found Reagan's policies toward the disadvantaged -- "taking on people who were poor, telling people they were worthless" -- deeply disturbing. "That's the part of the Reagan era," she thundered, "that I hope is buried when he is buried."

The event to be at, of course, was Bill Clinton's opening speech, which Mark and I elected to watch from the comfort of our hotel suite. He looked pretty good on TV, and did a good job of pitching My Life without pushing too hard. New York pulls back the curtain to introduce his literary helpmeets, a trio consisting of Taylor Branch, Bob Gottlieb, and former glamorous rock star Ted Widmer. (Okay, okay, he was also a Clinton speechwriter and now chairs the American Studies department at Washington College.) Meanwhile, NYT does the gazillionth iteration of the "politicos make their book deals through Robert Barnett" story.

Boston Globe reporter Vanessa Jones considers co-authors, mostly for bubblegum books (though The Rule of Four is the upscale exception). The general take seems to be that such books sell even if they aren't that "good," but the consensus shifts even within individual opinions; Penguin editor Molly Stern says early on, "I can say with great certainty that a work of literature would never be coauthored," but by story's end she's conceded, "I would be willing to venture that there's a new receptivity to it. If someone sent me a literary novel by two people, it would be genuinely acceptable." Of course, this news that collaborations don't produce literature may come as a shock to fans of the classic Pohl/Kornbluth satire The Space Merchants, but then I suppose one could always dismiss that as genre stuff...

Felicia Sullivan appears in a NYT story on how some New Yorkers mourn, opening up to readers about her morning ritual of silent reflection at South Street Seaport.