Page 23
To my mind, on of the most important new moves in the world of bricks-and-mortar indie bookseller retailing is the Page 23 program launched by Changing Hands in Tempe AZ. Here's their spiel on why they did it:
Changing Hands Bookstore spawned Page23 in 2005 in response to the NEA's "Reading at Risk" report--a study showing readership plummeting at an alarming rate (especially among those in their 20's and 30's). Our mission is to support writing that speaks to this elusive generation of readers, as well as those hungry for books outside the mainstream. We identify and promote edgy and unusual fiction, nonfiction, poetry and art books--titles that too often fly under the radar of the Sunday book pages and the big box stores. At Page23, we see ourselves as a tool for readers and booksellers alike, working to connect people with books that might otherwise go unnoticed and unread.
You might notice, if you check out the link on Page23 that their home page is a MySpace page—one of the things they're doing with that is a series of interviews and I'm pleased to report that the current one is with Lydia Millet. herewith, Lydia on our reissue of her 2002 novel, My Happy Life.
The main character in My Happy Life, a woman left to die locked in an abandoned mental institution, is pleasantly nostalgic about her considerably awful past. What made you want to devote a whole novel to her?LM: I don't know that I'd say "pleasantly nostalgic," though I get that maybe you're trying to be succinct for people who haven't read the book. That phrase makes it sound light, even, dare I say, fatuous. In fact, in her memory, everything is imbued with empathy. Everyone gets the benefit of the doubt—even inanimate objects. Pardon is extended infinitely. I wanted to write about a person like her partly because I'm so unlike her—I'm judgmental, I'm opinionated, and though I hold empathy in high esteem I feel its limits everywhere, pressing. And partly I wanted to write the book in an affective, almost philosophical gesture, one I wanted to feel for myself as well as offer to the reader. She's clearly an extreme portrait. But not for nothing, I wanted the reader to be involved in this magnanimous empathy—this refusal to objectify or distance.