Haruki Murakami, while we are talking about him, has the first part of a new short story in this week's Guardian Review, where we would not have expected to see it (tho' they have run stories by such as Richard Ford and Annie Proulx before in the good ol' Grauniad).
Martin Amis, while we had momentarily forgotten all about him, seems to have been busily sharpening his acid pencil, and he turns up in the brand new New Yorker (and what a cracker of an issue it looks like) with a short story of his own, or a novel excerpt, or summat. Meanwhile his legions of haters in the UK will no doubt be sharpening their own implements for a spot of ritual disembowelment when Amis's next book appears. Readers will recall that this weblog is not one of the many kneejerk critics of Amis's last novel (the one with the yellow-on-black cover, or black-on-yellow, depending on where you bought it), which was in fact vintage Amis if you cared to read it with disinterested - as opposed to uninterested - eyes.
