How Literature Saved My Life

David Shields

Knopf, 224 pp., $25.95

David Shields, for all he is, can sometimes read like a second-rate Geoff Dyer. In his new book How Literature Saved My Life, Mr. Shields looks at cultural touchstones that are important to him and then tries to conjure up a unifying theory based on why he likes them, and he’s just substantially worse at it than Geoff Dyer is.

It may be that he tries to analyze too many things. In a way, this capsule review is entirely appropriate for How Literature Saved My Life, since it’s not uncommon for him to reference three books in two pages, which doesn’t make for meaty observations. There’s a lack of confidence about the book, because you feel he’s trying to impress you with all the references and doesn’t trust himself enough to spend time on anything.

My theory (that Mr. Shields is a worse Geoff Dyer) coalesced during a scene in which Mr. Shields goes out to dinner with Geoff Dyer and Mr. Dyer calls him a wimp for ordering prosecco. But Mr. Shields gets the last laugh, apparently, because he notices that Mr. Dyer really enjoys hamburgers and, when you think about it, life. That anecdote, and its analysis, are indicative of Mr. Shields’s tone: smug, superficial and awkward. If Mr. Dyer can be summed up with the hamburger anecdote, Mr. Shields can probably be summed up by his own (only semi-ironic) proclamation that the greatest pleasure in the world is watching entire seasons of television on DVD.—Dan Duray

Hopper: A Journey Into the American Dream

Tom Folsom

It Books (Imprint of HarperCollins), 320 pp., $26.99

How much you’ll enjoy reading Tom Folsom’s biography of Hollywood iconoclast Dennis Hopper will depend entirely on how much disbelief you’re willing to suspend. Without ever having interviewed the actor/director/art collector/bona fide American madman, Mr. Folsom plays the part of his spiritual medium, taking us through each chapter of the Kansas-born, James Dean-worshipping, psychedelic psychotic’s life, describing exactly what was going through the mind of the semi-tragic American almost-hero at each juncture.

During the scouting of Easy Rider, Hopper had “snapped mental Polaroids of the pop art of America, picked up by his sense along the roadside, all to be used someway, somehow.” Anxious to be working with Elizabeth Taylor and James Dean in Giant, we are told, “He didn’t want to get all frozen up like one of those lit-up Marfa jackrabbits he and Jimmy shot with .22s, hypnotizing ’em in the headlights of their pickup truck.”

However, if a loose interpretation of the “biography” genre doesn’t bother you, Mr. Folsom’s work is full of life, capturing the feeling, if not the facts, of Hopper’s life. A full third of the book is devoted to the laborious process of shooting and editing The Last Movie, the box office bomb that Hopper made in Peru and obsessed over in the editing room while in the throes of drug and alcohol addiction. Hopper doesn’t dawdle, except for when Dennis himself did. —Drew Grant

Lonely Jeff's fliers (Author Site)

"It's kind of like being in a David Lynch movie," Jeff Ragsdale told The Observer over the phone. "Half of the calls I get are blocked, so I never know who I'm going to get on the other end." Six months ago, Mr. Ragsdale started hanging up fliers around New York City, inviting people to call him. 65,000 people did so (including text messages).

Two days ago, The New York Post noticed and did a short profile on Mr. Ragsdale experiment. Since then, Mr. Ragsdale, who said he's been battling loneliness and depression all his life and started the fliers after a painful breakup,  has received another 3,000 calls/texts. (Don't worry, he's on a limitless phone plan.) That's even more than when his note went viral on the front page of Reddit.

Oh, and he has a book coming out today.

The Seattle native answered our call on the first ring, and for several minutes made chit-chat about the weather before getting down to business. After all, he has other calls to answer, not to mention the party for his new book, released today under Amazon Publishing. Jeff One Lonely Guy is the first book to be published under Amazon's New York arm.

"Three months ago I started collecting data," Mr. Ragsdale said about the book's genesis. "When I was at the University of Washington, I studied with David Shields, a really great writer. I would send him some of these texts people were sending me, or jotting down what they said, and we compiled them." His first reading tonight is at CultureFix, courtesy of Flavorpill.

He has fans in high places as well. On his website, JeffOneLonelyGuy.com, the first quote is from author Bret Easton Ellis:

The symphony of voices here is an overwhelming reading experience. This short book is also a verification of a legitimate new form of narrative; it’s the definitive document so far of where our medium is heading. I’ve never read anything like it.

This is not the first time Mr. Ragsdale has made a public bid for attention. The New York Post described him as a comedian and actor, though Mr. Ragsdale told The Observer he's been doing odd jobs--including working in a Midtown office--to make money. In 2010 he stood on a street corner holding a sign that said "I was verbally abusive. I'm sorry, Megan."

The New York Times' City Room blog took a picture and then retracted the story, calling it a hoax. Mr. Ragsdale claims it wasn't. "I suffer from a lot of anger issues.My girlfriend at the time, Megan Brady...she's a performer too...dared me to stand outside wearing that sign after a fight. It wasn't a hoax...the whole New York Times' thing happened because one of their writers took a picture of me."

Mr. Ragsdale also worked to bring down The Falls bar in 2006 after the murder of Imette St. Guillen, holding vigils outside the bar till it was shuttered for serving underage patrons.

"The Dorrian family was definitely tied to Giuliani and the police," Mr. Ragsdale said of the incident. "People have told me that I played a big part in making sure that case got the attention it needed and the bar was closed."

Ultimately, Mr. Ragsdale does think he's less lonely and more happy since the phone calls came in, though he admitted that it could be emotionally draining. "People call from all around the world with all sorts of problems," he said.

One that caught our eye was from a Goldman Sachs trader, who called Mr. Ragsdale three months ago. "He rapped for a little while from his desk," recalled the author. "He just wanted to talk about how everything was going, how the economy sucked and about the Occupy Wall Street protests. It did have this huge impact on the brokers, he said, even though they acted like it didn't. Moral was completely down."

"And then he asked an amazing question," Mr. Ragsdale remembered. "He said 'The telephone has been around for fifty years basically. Why has no one else every done your flier idea?"

A book marked by naked Oedipal conflict, a book stuffed with quotations from great writers, ought to have Stein’s beauty stashed somewhere between the covers, and though I waited for it all the way through The Thing About Life Is That One Day You’ll Be Dead, I came away disappointed. I wouldn’t say the omission ruined the book for me (it deals in more pressing disappointments, like mortality and the alternative: old age), but I did feel a little cheated. I mean, if David Shields insists on making me watch while he buries his 97-year-old dad in “a shower of death data,” couldn’t he at least throw in my favorite line?

An unusual miscellany—part memoir, part anatomy lesson, part grab bag of wise maxims—The Thing About Life Is That One Day You’ll Be Dead is far more entertaining than its title suggests. For one thing, Mr. Shields begins at the beginning (“A fetus doesn’t sit passively in its mother’s womb and wait to be fed. Its placenta aggressively sprouts blood vessels that invade its mother’s tissues to extract nutrients”), and a barrage of facts and statistics about the bodies of babies, children and adolescents is generally cheerier than the inevitable sequel: applied gerontology.

More importantly, Mr. Shields writes with neatly harnessed energy and good-humored confidence; he writes as though he were having fun. And a lucky thing, too, because he quotes others often and brilliantly: If your own prose is as drab as sackcloth, better to avoid decorating it with imported frills. Mr. Shields often samples three or four writers one after another: “Nietzsche: ‘There is more wisdom in your body than in your deepest philosophy.’ Wittgenstein said, ‘Our only certainty is to act with the body.’ Martha Graham: ‘The body never lies.’”

He takes the same percussive approach to factual information—and then swerves suddenly into a more lyrical mode, colored, sometimes, by personal experience: “During high school, girls’ bone development is 2 years ahead of boys. Young girls surpass boys in height and weight and they frequently remain taller until boys enter the adolescent growth spurt that accompanies pubescence. Maximum skeletal development occurs at 16 for most girls and 19 for most boys; dating between classmates in high school is by definition a hormonal mismatch and a farce.”

You won’t be surprised to hear that Mr. Shields, a 51-year-old novelist who teaches at the University of Washington in Seattle, is a little preoccupied with his corporeal self. Though he produces a fabulously repulsive aria on the subject of his own teenage acne, and he drags us along to meet the physical therapist charged with kneading his chronically painful back, he’s too smart and curious about life (and death) to bore us with health bulletins or mirror-gazing. All the same, certain casual asides give the impression of a man continually palpating himself.

Though neither of them is overweight, he and his wife “stage monthly dieting competitions.” He tells us how he’s coped with going bald: “Several years ago, I stumbled upon the shaved-head-and-goatee approach, which I must say I like.” And then there’s his sweet tooth: “I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. I do sugar, in massive doses.” (He also does Paxil, 10 mg. daily, for backache.)

DAVID SHIELDS’ OVERRIDING preoccupation is not actually with himself. It’s with his father, Milt (born Milton Shildcrout in Brooklyn in 1910), who shows no intention of dying—ever. Milt lives in a retirement community that the residents think of as an Olympic training camp—they’re “tough old birds” at play, furiously warding off fate. He’s the kind who has a heart attack playing tennis at age 86—and is back on the court three weeks later.

“Accept death” is David’s message to the paternal unit. “Accept life” is Milt’s mute reply. Funny how the indefatigable father (the son can’t help referring to him as the “Energizer Bunny”) is the sadder figure, a “survival machine” who struggles on blindly, solely for the sake of survival.

But the old guy is not immortal, as Mr. Shields doggedly insists. In the last chapters, he hammers away with the blunt bad news. It’s a touch sadistic—not gleeful, exactly, but punitive all the same. “[B]y the time you’re in your 80’s, not only has your ability to smell declined significantly but you yourself no longer even have a distinctive odor. You can stop using deodorants. You’re vanishing.”

I suggest you do what we all do when faced with the facts about old age and death: Look the other way.

Concentrate on David Shields’ writing: “The indoor pool is the wetland of the maimed—home to those bearing canes, knee braces, neck braces.” Concentrate on the deathless lines he’s borrowed: “And so from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe / And then from hour to hour, we rot and rot.” (That’s Jaques, in the immortal bard’s As You Like It.)

Adam Begley is the books editor of The Observer. He can be reached at books@observer.com.

While my single friends complain bitterly about the dearth of desirable mates in New York City, they naïvely assume that the quest for Mr. or Ms. Right ends after you have found true love. Little do they know that it is doubly difficult to create chemistry among four people-not to mention coordinating work and gym schedules. Once you add kids to the equation, the odds of finding compatible companionship with another couple plummet.

It seems we are not alone in our quest to hook up with another nauseatingly happy couple. "You find a mate that mirrors you on some level, and then you look to do the same with friends," said Jennifer Elsner, a graphic designer in her mid-30's who lives with her husband, David Shields, and their baby son in Park Slope. They are looking for like-minded pairs to join them on jaunts to the food co-op. "It's about forming a community."

For the lucky few, finding their double-dating doppelgängers comes easily. When Matt and Stephanie Baumoel met Jen and Brad Kern on a ski trip to Vermont in the late 90's, for instance, they knew they were destined to be friends. "It was an instant click. Both of us were like, 'Ooh, they're kind of cool. We like them.' It didn't hurt that they had a house in the Hamptons and a car," said Mr. Baumoel, a senior publicist for Thirteen/WNET.

Of course, the obvious difference between finding a couple to "date" and finding an individual to date is that physical attraction isn't a requirement for friendship, although it does help to keep things exciting (remember Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice ?). We all know married couples who seek outside companionship primarily to rejuvenate their own sparks. Tired of trading the same information about work, family and friends, these bored couples feed on new blood with fresh stories to tell.

"When you're dating romantically, there's that great moment when you first meet somebody and you click and you're totally in sync. The same thing totally happens with couple friends when you go out to dinner and it just clicks. And, of course, it doesn't hurt when it's four bottles of wine later and you think everybody is hilarious," said Brent Poer, a Lifetime executive who, along with his former partner Christopher Cormier, advertising beauty director at Marie Claire , used to go steady with Jake Deutche, an emergency-room physician, and Joey Guintoli, who works in fashion, when they were together.

Inspired by the success stories of couples who have committed to a steady double date, we haven't given up hope that we too will find our special pair. Just as the Flintstones relied on the Rubbles and the Ricardos turned to the Mertzes, we are looking for a couple to serve as the supporting cast of our lives.

We find ourselves fantasizing about our dream couple. We're not too picky, but it would help if they were good-looking-but not too good-looking. They should earn enough money that they can afford to join us on our rare night out on the town, but not be so high-powered that they look down their noses at our Old Navy–infused wardrobes. While it's not a requirement, it would be a plus if they had glamorous jobs that prompted provocative conversation and if they lived within walking distance. Ideally, they would have a toddler who could amuse our 22-month-old daughter for hours on end.

But it's not so simple. Courting another couple and seeking their approval can be as anxiety-producing and, ultimately, as disappointing as a date who promises to call and never does. After Friends ' Chandler and Monica developed a crush on another couple while on their honeymoon, they were left to ponder what they did wrong when the couple ditched them by slipping them a fake phone number. We're now finding ourselves in the same position of assessing our flaws. "Were we too forward?" I asked my husband after one coffee date with another couple. "Do you think they'll call us?"

"I wouldn't wait by the phone," he replied.

To be honest, neither my husband nor I had ever quite mastered the singles dating scene (we met on a blind date after many years of bad dates), and now we suddenly find ourselves thrust back into the world of uncertainty and self-doubt that we naïvely thought we'd left behind. Why would anyone want to date us, anyway? Are my husband's OshKosh overalls keeping potential dates at bay? Do I talk too much about potty-training?

We recently chatted up an affable couple who met all of our requirements-and, as an added bonus, were co-owners of a trendy restaurant -but when we tried to book a get-together, they couldn't find room for us in their busy social calendars until next spring. There was another couple we bonded with while pushing our children on the swings at the Union Square playground, but any hopes of forming a fabulous foursome were quashed when our daughter brained their son with a toy truck. (It's amazing how quickly a little spilled blood can get in the way of a meaningful relationship.)

Then there are those awkward occasions when you hit it off with someone only to discover that your spouses can't stand each other. "There's nothing worse than being in a situation where you go out with a couple and you think they're fantastic and your partner looks at you and says, 'They suck. They're pompous. We had nothing in common,'" as Mr. Poer put it.

Just as we were starting to lose hope that we'd ever find lasting happiness with another couple, things have begun to look up for us on the dating front. Last week, we abandoned the singles-centric East Village for the happy couples' haven of Park Slope, where, as luck would have it, we have settled around the corner from Ms. Elsner and Mr. Shields. They invited us to a New Year's Day party where we turned on the charm. It seemed to do the trick. We gave them our number, and we're optimistic that they'll call.

But just in case they don't, we've already scheduled brunch with another couple for next weekend (we're playing the field). The wife and I met at a breast-feeding support group and became fast friends by gossiping about the other moms. Her daughter doesn't seem to mind it when our daughter occasionally whacks her on the head, and our husbands bonded over their mutual interest in imported beers, Russian literature and community gardens. If things continue to go smoothly, we might get lucky and this could turn into a steady thing. Now if we can just talk them into buying a country house.