I have worked at a newspaper. I have been laid off from a newspaper. I know a little bit about the problems plaguing the newspaper industry, the market forces and sheer stupidity that is flushing the whole traditional world of paper news down the toilet. And so does Tom Rachman. In this, his debut novel, he weaves together a collection of related short stories about different characters associated with an international English newspaper based in Rome.
Now I have to say up front, if you have no background in newspapers or, even worse, no interest in the newspaper industry, you should probably just put this one back on the shelf. Not your cup of tea. At certain places in the book, even I wondered where he was going, if he’d gotten off track, because my interest waned. But then there were other little gems that brought me right back in and were incredibly touching or amusing.
For instance, one of the newspaper’s editors puts together his own stylebook, constantly noting down mistakes, phrases and words that drive him absolutely crazy. Such as:
Literally: This word should be deleted. All too often, actions described as “literally” did not happen at all. As in, “He literally jumped out of his skin.” No, he did not. Thought is he literally had, I’d suggest raising the element and proposing the piece for page one. Inserting “literally” willy-nilly reinforces the notion that breathless nitwits lurk within this newsroom. Eliminate on sight – the usage, not the nitwits. The nitwits are to be captured and placed in the cages I have set up in the subbasement. See also: Excessive dashes; Exclamation Points; and Nitwits.
OK, I totally want to be able to send nitwits to cages in a subbasement. Sometimes, nitwits literally deserve that.
At the end of the novel, I wasn’t sure if it was 100 percent successful. Perhaps Rachman’s inexperience shines through in places. But at the end, I did feel very satisfied, thinking that the whole big yarn ball of interconnected tales had captured something important, something entertaining and worthwhile. I look forward to seeing what he churns out next time around.
Rating: Four out of five stars.
“I don’t like Philip Roth,” I said to them, the Roth-y groupies. But their teary eyes and gesturing hands drive me to change my mind, to give the man another chance after the boring travesty that was 
This selection of stories centered on the Indian/Indian-American culture (dots, not feathers) was simply written yet vivid. Though I enjoyed it and read it quickly, I can’t help but shake the feeling that I could have gotten just as much out of it had I been reading it while bouncing up and down on the stair master. In other words, the book seemed to be a placeholder, something to do to keep my eyes busy that didn’t permeate much further into my head. And though I could be wrong, none of these stories will wind up haunting the corners of my mind, which makes me wonder why it received the Pulitzer. But ah well, I don’t give out the prizes. (Or maybe I’m distracted, who knows?)
A friend is someone with whom you share the important things in your life, including books. (And if books are not an at-least-somewhat-important part of life, we will most likely not be that close of friends. No offence. Really.) Even so, friends don’t always share the same taste in fiction. When such tragedies occur, it doesn’t often come to blows — unless you insult 
It’s truly amazing that this man is still around — born in 1922, rumored to smoke unfiltered Pall Mall cigerettes (“a classy way to commit suicide,” he says). But thank the Lord that he is still here — or, because 
Okay, so I’ve been getting behind on my book reviews (I have four completed books to regurgitate for my audience in proper witty fashion) because I have been working on getting this Web site set up. Isn’t it purdy, though? So it’s been a while since I read this snappy, original and succinct collection of short stories, but I haven’t forgotten it.
