August: Granta for sale. October: Granta sold, to my new favorite 43-year-old Swede with a PhD in Estonian anthropology and a milk-carton fortune.
I’ve written about my affection for Granta before. And even though it’s known largely for debuting promising authors of fiction, my love comes mainly on the nonfiction side of the register. As editor Ian Jack writes in this retrospective, about the magazine’s earliest manifesto: “[It] speaks from a different age, when ‘literature’ was confined to fiction, the literary essay, and poetry. The paradox is that it was Granta, through [editor Bill] Buford’s early championing of forms such as the travel account, the memoir, and reportage, which did so much to expand the idea of what ‘literature’ could be or do.”
I hate the word “reportage.” It stinks of Gallic pretension, and presumes a sort of artistic reserve above plain old plebe “reporting.” But Buford and Granta did a lot to make my occasional literary aspirations conceivable.
In other news: Buy Vincent Gallo’s sperm — the racism’s free! And the Go! Team live on KEXP. “Ladyflash” is a particular standout.
One thought on “the greatness of granta”
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I’ve never understood why Granta isn’t more widely appreciated. When my issue comes I pretty much drop whatever I’m reading and go through it cover to cover. I’d agree, though, that ‘Reportage’ is a bogus word. Sounds like something you need an FDA daily recommended allowance of.