McSweeney's 45

It's another anthology from McSweeney's, with dueling (ok, alternating) tales from a Bradbury anthology and a Hitchcock anthology. Some of them are classics (Bradbury's "The Pedestrian"), some are tediously long (Lucille Fletcher and Allan Ullman's "Sorry, Wrong Number"), one is out-of-place (John Cheever's "The Enormous Radio", while an excellent story, just doesn't quite feel like it belongs in here).

China Mieville's "The Design" is excellent and really impressed me, and Brian Evenson's "The Dust" certainly feels like it could be in a 50s/60s anthology. Kafka's "In the Penal Colony" is both terrifying and awful (and the machine described therein is featured in Gene Wolfe's Book of the Long Sun). Julian May's "Dune Roller" is an example of a really worthwhile story I was previously unfamiliar with (more than likely because Hitchcock, rather than Bradbury, picked it, but it certainly could have been a Bradbury pick). In contrast, Benjamin Percy's "Suicide Woods" doesn't belong in here, both because it has little in common with the other stories in the anthology, and because it has far too much in common with stories in other McSweeney's anthologies. I feel like I've read it a dozen times previously, and that's not a good thing, either for it or those other stories.

Overall, recommended. Even the stories I was less than thrilled with are page turners (and as far as page turners, the last story enclosed here is terrifying, and has a lot in common with a favorite, Alfred Bester's "Fondly Fahrenheit.")

A Mencken Chrestomathy

Sweet merciful crap did it take me too long to finish this. H.L. Mencken is an American icon, but if this is him at his best, I'm not going to be inclined to seek out much more of his work. Mencken has a reputation as a gadfly, which is certainly fulfilled here, but there's also lots of conjecture, speculation without supporting evidence, and general orneriness. Mencken can certainly turn a phrase (a nice line to end another vignette I wasn’t enamored with: "if women, continuing their present tendency to its logical goal, end by going stark naked, there will be no more poets and painters, but only dermatologists."), but many of his sections (such as on the relations between men and women, quoted above) are embarrassingly outdated.

This isn't a difficult read in that it's dense, hard to follow, or challenging, but Mencken's style hasn't aged particularly well; he reads like an ancient hackle-raising columnist, which is exactly what he is at this point. One can certainly see why he was censured and denounced -- there's loads of inventive invective in here, but the actual ideas are usually pretty half-baked. Unfortunately, I like the idea of Mencken more than I like the reality -- taking potshots at America, American customs and peculiarities, and particular Americans sounds a lot more interesting in theory than what Henry Louis does in practice. I'd love to be proven wrong at some point, but after slogging through this lackluster anthology, I'd put that as unlikely.