It happens like this: A reader surfaces in EJ’s office, or maybe it gets sent to Marketing because there’s an event coming up, and someone reads the blurb and goes, “Hmm, might not be bad.” And the bookseller takes it home, reads it, and starts speaking to his or her coworkers in hushed and reverential tones between shelves – “This book, I just started this book, and it’s good. It’s really good.” The bookseller pledges to lend it as soon as possible, and before you know it, word has spread – “Hey, there’s this book, and it’s supposed to be good.” More booksellers read it and confirm the rumor: Yes, yes indeed this book is good. That’s when the muscles start to flex, the senses heighten, because there are only two, maybe three, if we’re really lucky, copies of this not-yet-released good book in the store. Negotiations are intense. “Well, you’re already reading 1Q84 so it’s not like you’ll have time to read this other little book for months so by all rights, give it to me.” “I’ll lend you the new Didion, the new Delillo, and Flame Alphabet in exchange.” “I will name my firstborn after you. If I fail to bear children, then I’ll name every pet after you for the rest of my life if you’ll just let me borrow that book!!!!”
So it is with Pulphead. We walk into Receiving at our own risk this week, where Allan and Chris are engaged in a deadlock tug of war with an already battered copy of this collection of essays by writer John Jeremiah Sullivan. Kester felt a kinship with Sullivan from the moment he began reading, sure that if ever they met, he and John Jeremiah would be the best of friends. (And it’s true – they met over the phone last week and now Sullivan’s crashing at Kester’s place when he’s here for his event with us in November.) I am personally hiding my copy of the book face down under a landslide of “important papers” on my desk.
What is it about a book that does this? That pits otherwise friendly booksellers against one another? In this case, it is Sullivan’s voice, the voice of, as Kester felt right away, a friend. In these essays, which are each varied and absorbing in their own different ways, Sullivan describes experiences so unusual and interesting I find myself forgetting they aren’t fiction. I find myself forgetting that he isn’t sitting in the room personally telling me these stories about his brother’s near-death experience and the people he met at the Christian rock festival. Sullivan’s voice has a presence that transcends the page.
It’s rare that an original voice surfaces in the tidal wave of books we open here each day. When it does, we want you to know about it. We want everyone to know about it. So get your hands on a copy of Pulphead. The New York Times took note of it this weekend in the Book Review, saying, “The putty that binds (these essays) together is Mr. Sullivan’s steady and unhurried voice. Reading him, I felt the way Mr. Sullivan does while listening to a Bunny Wailer song called “Let Him Go.” That is, I felt ‘like a puck on an air-hockey table that’s been switched on.’ ”
Keep an eye out for Kester’s forthcoming Q&A with Sullivan. And head down to the store Monday, November 14th, 7p to meet the man himself. But before all of that, really, read this book.
BookPeople 