Today's the birthday of two of my favourite Americans: John Crowley and Woody Allen. Crowley wrote the novel Little, Big, which showed me that genre writing can produce great literature (rarely, yes, but it's worth looking), and is also responsible (at least partly) for much of my present happiness. When Lesha and I began our epistolary romance we traded questions about favourite things, including book, mine, of course, being Little, Big. She then bought and read (eventually - but twice, and it's now one of her faves, too) this book. And so I was bitten with the smittenbug. I couldn't help but give my heart into the keeping of such a girl. And Woody made one of our favourite films. Annie Hall, yes. But also so many others: Manhattan, Sleeper, Love and Death, The Purple Rose of Cairo, Everyone Says I Love You, Sweet and Lowdown. So he's answerable for many of my misguided and neurotic notions about romantic love, I guess. He and scores of loveaddled English poets. Anyway, happy birthday guys, and thanks.
'Books Written for Girls' Camera Obscura
'Love Cliché' Bran Van 3000
'Woody' Hayden
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