Here is a photograph of the Buenos Aires-based Bookstore El Atenio:

I have to go change my pants now. More photos of crazy international bookstores and libraries are here.

I still prefer the term "electronic mail," so I'm obviously not going to be down with the Twitter terminology anytime soon. But I'm all for the idea of Twitter and it's very democratic immediacy. Apparently, Ben Okri agrees with me:

Short, lucid writing is needed in these uncertain times, according to the Booker prize-winning Nigerian author Ben Okri, who is releasing a new poem line by line on Twitter.

"Forms follows adversity — we live in uncertain times. I think we need a new kind of writing that responds to the anxiety of our age and yet has brevity," he said. "My feeling is that these times are perfect for short, lucid forms. We need to get more across in fewer words. The Twitter poem tries to respond to this and the feeling of freedom."

Okri's Twitter feed is here. If you're looking for less poetic Twitter feeds to follow, mine is here. And A. Birch Steen's is here (apparently, our ombudsman has started to heckle Daniel Schorr, too.)

In other literary Twitter news, Picador is starting a Twitter book club. Again, I think that Twitter might be a good medium for this kind of thing, even if I'm not crazy about any of their initial bookclub selections.

Upon seeing this...

...a deeply loved poem resurfaced:

Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantily dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.

I feel pretty good about this particular Slog Commenter Book Report because I practically forced this book into the reviewer's hands. Matt Hickey was at first resistant to Beat the Reaper, which I reviewed here. But it turns out I know how to pick 'em. Any problems you might have with this review are the fault of the editor. I am the editor. Take it away, M.F-in.H.:

There is much to like about Josh Bazell's debut novel, Beat the Reaper. If you're looking for inspirational literature, this is not your book. If you're looking for a fun book to read on a cross-country flight that's smarter than the one being read by the douchey saleswoman from Microsoft you're stuck sitting next to, this is your book.

The book can best be described as post-Palahniuk fiction. The protagonist is a dick. The antagonists are dicks. Everyone is a dick. You don't really like anyone, but Bazell does a good job of making you at least care for some of them.

Thematically, one could pitch it as Fight Club meets Grey's Anatomy meets House meets The Sopranos. That sounds dumb, but Bazell's able to balance it out fairly well and makes it fun.

Reaper is centered around Dr. Peter Brown, whose back story and current bad-day-at-work plots intertwine via flashbacks to a fairly disgusting climax that might make some readers squirm. The first few chapters feature the protagonist's thoughts on ways to "beat the reaper", but these disappear mysteriously about half-way through the book.

Dr. Brown is an intern at Manhattan Catholic Hospital. But he's there via the grace of the Witness Protection Program. In his former life, as Pietro Brwna, he was a hitman for the New Jersey mob, albeit one with a conscience. After a mix-up in identities that leads the deaths of innocents, he decides that he wants to atone for his sins by helping people instead of hurting them.

Of course old habits die hard, and he finds himself popping pills provided by Stacy, a drug rep with a short skirt and fake smile, avoiding his students and bosses, and trying not to accidentally kill patients. This is when one of his former colleagues shows up for cancer treatment and threatens to blow his cover as the notorious hit man Bearclaw.

This is all after he takes on an early morning would-be mugger, steals his pistol, watches a death match between a squirrel and a pigeon, describes his best friend's casual incest, and accidentally jabs himself with a blood sample needle from another man's mystery illness. And then it gets weird.

There are a few interesting plot twists, but Bazell does a good job of keeping it interesting while keeping things more or less focused. Readers will find the characters—even the throw-away ones—have depth, which makes it a hard book to put down. You'll learn the phrase "Fuck juice," you'll find a shark tank, and laugh at jokes about the Holocaust.

It ends rather like you'd expect it, though not without throwing a couple gross curve balls first, and in the end a reader feels like they've read a complete story, something many books forget to cover.

An interesting feature of this book is textbook-like footnotes that explain many of the medical and mob-centric terms used. At first I thought it to be a gimmick, but by the time the third act kicks into gear, these footnotes are used to keep the story going at a good pace without sacrificing clarity to the reader. I find myself wishing some other modern novels used this approach.

It's not a great book, but it is a very good book. It's fun and dirty and mean and exhaustive and leaves you wanting more; not because it's missing anything, but because you'll enjoy Bazell's world enough to want to experience the fucked-up characters a little more each day.

Many thanks to Matt Fuckin' Hickey

(Or is it Matt "Fuck-juice" Hickey?)