When I picked up the 38th edition of “Timothy McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern,” it wasn’t because I had any prior knowledge of a publisher named Timothy McSweeney. It also wasn’t because the book was perched under a best-seller shelf with a paper screaming “read me” tucked between the pages. I had neither heard of nor seen this strange book before.
I picked up ‘McSweeney’s 38’ because it was the most adorable little yellow clothbound specimen of a book that I had ever seen. And I am shallow. And weak.
Normally this tactic does not bode well for the reading which the more substantial and sensible woman within me must later flip through. And while normally this nasty little habit ends in my creating a rather colorful collage of beautifully bad books lining my desk, walls and closet (the roommates love that), on this specific occasion all was not lost in the literal sense.
“McSweeney’s” is an absolute triumph.
The short stories in the anthology were excellent. The pieces ranged from nonfiction to refurbished fairy tales, to stories of bloody in-fighting amongst middle-aged Irish housewives and their domestic chickens. They were of such breadth that I found myself laughing, sobbing, and chewing on my hair from one story to the next, quite the discomfort of the boy across from me at my cafe table.
Tip of my hat to the Dave Eggers, the editor of ‘McSweeney’s 38’ and all other editions, for fearlessly choosing such sublime works of literature that reach towards opposite corners of the storytelling world. Eggers is also the founder of the McSweeney’s publishing house, named after Timothy McSweeney, a mysterious relative who wrote consistently to Eggers family during his childhood. Publishing books, anthologies (such as my own ‘McSweeney’s 38’), as well as an online humor site, a magazine, film collections, and a food journal, McSweeney’s is a feat within the publishing world. And it maintains all the cheek and pizazz that the internet, movies, magazines, novels, and anthologies can collectively afford.
Perhaps most magnificent: McSweeney’s is based in San Francisco. Excitedly I tell you all that I can see McSweeney’s from my backyard.
So, alas, I have at this juncture in time cast my copy of ”The New Yorker” aside — worry not dear friend, I will no doubt return to you one day — and am busying myself with wading up to my gills in McSweeney’s goodness. I suggest you follow my lead. Because my little yellow bundle of joy is a gem inside and out. It’s the whole mysterious package, with Timothy McSweeney’s name all over it.
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