Word: scribner
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Hokeyness, though, is a prime ingredient for a successful beach book, and it rears its head in another Grishamesque page turner: Likely to Die (Scribner; 393 pages; $24), a novel about a murdered neurosurgeon written by Manhattan sex-crimes prosecutor Linda Fairstein. Where else will you find the line "In your dreams, Blondie. In your dreams...
...that animation has been recognized as art, it's time to remember that it has always been big business, bad business--Serious Business, to borrow the title of a helpful cartoon history by Stefan Kanfer, a former TIME film critic and senior editor. (The book is published by Scribner, which, oddly enough, has no cartoon division.) From the Jones, Canemaker and Kanfer works emerges a picture of the industry that might have been painted not by Disney but by Goya. It's compelling and instructive, and it ain't pretty...
...make the store a good place to spend leisure time." Riggio's concept appears to be working. Superstores are expanding and multiplying (to the tune of 20% last year) and even stores whose main business isn't bookselling are aping the superstores' bibliophilic ambiance. In Manhattan's landmark Scribner's bookstore, fabled haunt of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, a Benetton branch has set up shop and begun playing host to something called the Salon, a reading series featuring such swank young writers as Daphne Merkin, whose books will be on sale amid the turtlenecks...
...ANGELA'S ASHES (Scribner). When it comes to sad tales of childhood hardships, "nothing can compare with the Irish version." So writes Frank McCourt, a retired New York City public school teacher, and then proceeds to prove his point. His memoir of growing up poor in the dank slums of Limerick radiates misery, humor and the cheerful humanity that got him through...
Jobs were as scarce in Ireland as they had been in America, but life did not much improve on those rare occasions when Frank's father Malachy found work. As McCourt recalls in a spunky, bittersweet memoir called Angela's Ashes (Scribner; 364 pages; $24), his dad was both a kindly parent and a world-class rummy. Sober enough during the week, on paydays Malachy McCourt would guzzle away his wages at a pub and, late Friday night, stagger home, penniless. There, while his wife Angela wept and railed, he would coax his sons into singing old patriot tunes...