"There are a lot of novels out there that make you think America is England, you know?" responds Hannaham, describing the type of fiction he deliberately didn't write. "That book is sort of—it's dark green, and there's a very sort of sensuous but depressing-looking cover: a photograph, there's like a blurry thing in the distance. It's a beach maybe, and the title describes a relationship between a mother and a daughter, or a mother and a father, or a father and a daughter. And the typography is all done in the same typeface as money, and the interior is all about small lives lived in a small way. I've often felt like those books don't have much to do with the way life is actually lived in America." (— interview in the Village Voice)

It's hard for me to even have that one sofa there. I feel like its creepy pale ripply surface is contaminating the whole post. I have to tip the balance by putting in more photos. Such as:


an overweight hedgehog (thank you Gail), my childhood dog Shady (1985-1998) swimming in the lake,


a rock that looks like a monster at the Oregon coast, and my beloved friends Brock and Nick after breakfast in Portland.
That feels better.
Here too is the cover of James Hannaham's book, which officially hits the shelves next Tuesday.

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