book of the year

"new yorker" readers, if they're honest, will tell you the bek toon is the first thing they look for in the magazine. in the world of toons there is no one better. it's all in the dialogue.

gleesome

sometimes one's whole day, can be irradiated, made glad, by something as simple as a headline. such was the case when i opened my copy of the "literary review" and found examined the book "the death of french culture". happy thought! hopefully this title connotes a reported fact and not just journalistic prophecy.

any mention of france automatically puts me in mind of england's most bespoke and conspicuous francophile, julian barnes: someone who wears his country's incurable un-frenchness with a permanently pained expression. now barnes is a splendid fellow. a superb essayist and a tolerable novelist. but his francophilia is, put politely, a rum thing. almost indecent.

an excessive fondness for french culture is always discreditable. especially in an englishman.