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    <name><![CDATA[Paul]]></name>
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  <id type="integer">92541</id>
  <isbn>0679735755</isbn>
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  <title>
    <![CDATA[U and I: A True Story]]>
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  <average_rating>3.80</average_rating>
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    <![CDATA[Nicholson Baker is most famous for <em>Vox</em>, the phone-sex novel Monica Lewinsky gave President Clinton, but the vastly superior <em>U and I</em> contains Baker's own dirty little secret: an obsession with John Updike. Not since Salieri in Peter Shaffer's <em>Amadeus</em> has one man's genius so publicly tormented another. Baker's ambition is a naked thing shivering with sensitivity, like a snail bereft of its shell. Yet his book about himself thinking about Updike is as hilariously self-knowing as it is excruciatingly sincere. And Baker is not mad (not <em>quite</em>). He does have a few things in common with his idol: fiction precociously published in <em>The New Yorker</em>, psoriasis, insomnia, a keen eye for everyday minutiae, and a mischievously felicitous prose style. He is, however, funnier. Hunting for Updike at <em>The Atlantic</em>'s 125th anniversary party, he gets brutally snubbed by Miss Manners--<em>U and I</em> is a fine comedy of literary manners--and cheers up when Tim O'Brien chats with him. But when O'Brien mentions that he golfs with Updike, Baker is hurt:<p>  <blockquote> It didn't matter that I hadn't written a book that had won a National Book Award, hadn't written a book of any kind, and didn't know how to golf: still, I felt strongly that Updike should have asked me and not Tim O'Brien. </blockquote><p>  He justifies this reaction with a remarkably intricate series of associations between his life and Updike's, starting with the major impact a golf joke in an Updike essay once had on him. When Baker reads in the paper that his local cops offer to X-ray kids' candy for razors, he plausibly imagines the droll &quot;Talk of the Town&quot; piece Updike might have spun from the item, glumly noting that Updike's piece would have been better. He even teasingly confesses that <em>U and I</em> constitutes &quot;a little trick-or-treating of my own on Updike's big white front porch.&quot; By the time he actually meets his hero (at Rochester's Xerox Auditorium!) in 1981, Baker has transformed him into a character in a Baker story. Quite a trick--and a treat.<p>  In his elegy for Yeats, Auden wrote that a great poet's words are modified in the guts of the living, but Baker proves what really happens: at best we misremember and mangle, shamelessly remaking the master in our own image. <em>--Tim Appelo</em> </p></p></p>]]>
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    <id>15882</id>
        <name><![CDATA[Nicholson Baker]]></name>
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    <average_rating>3.65</average_rating>
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  </authors>  <published>1991</published>
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    <rating>4</rating>
  <votes>3</votes>
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  <read_at>Mon Aug 04 15:12:53 -0700 2008</read_at>
  <date_added>Sun Sep 30 14:18:30 -0700 2007</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Aug 04 15:12:53 -0700 2008</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[1) NB says :<br/><br/>&quot;I wanted my first novel to be a veritable infarct of narrative cloggers; the trick being to feel your way through each clog by blowing it up until its obstructiveness finally revealed not blank mass but unlooked-for seepage-points of passage.&quot;<br/><br/>2) I just ...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/7043505">more...</a>]]></body>
    
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