How many cities are so empty you can play golf in them? 

DETROIT: AN AMERICAN AUTOPSY by Charlie LeDuff is now available in paperback. Charlie celebrates the publication by golfing all over Detroit…

Great Biography & Memoir Gifts for Readers

randomhouse:

image

Memoirs: because everyone has a story to tell. Some people’s stories are just more interesting.

Let Me Off At The Top by Ron Burgundy
Wild Tales by Graham Nash (audiobook) 
The Beatles: All These Years: Tune In by Mark Lewisohn
Five Days at Memorial by Sheri Fink
Provence, 1970 by Luke Barr
Robert Oppenheimer by Ray Monk
My Beloved World by Sonia Sotomayor
The Man Who Saved The Union by H.W. Brands
Elsewhere by Richard Russo
My Brief History by Stephen Hawking
Jim Henson by Brian Jay Jones
Rob Delaney by Rob Delaney
Orange is the New Black by Piper Kerman
Thomas Jefferson: The Art of Power by Jon Meacham
The Death of Santini by Pat Conroy (audiobook)
The Dark Path by David Schickler
Detroit: An American Autopsy by Charlie LeDuff
There Was a Country by Chinua Achebe
Eminent Hipsters by Donald Fagen
Undisputed Truth by Mike Tyson

Don’t forget to vote for the Goodreads Choice Awards! Here are our picks for poetry, cooking, science fiction and nonfiction! 

“Go ahead and laugh at Detroit. Because you are laughing at yourself.” -Charlie LeDuff, Detroit: An American Autopsy

“Go ahead and laugh at Detroit. Because you are laughing at yourself.” 
-Charlie LeDuff, Detroit: An American Autopsy

A big congrats to Charlie LeDuff: Detroit: An American Autopsy is a certified New York Times bestseller! (If you haven’t heard his great interview on “Fresh Air,” we highly recommend it.)
As you can see above, we celebrated the good news with a few books and a few beers. 

A big congrats to Charlie LeDuff: Detroit: An American Autopsy is a certified New York Times bestseller! (If you haven’t heard his great interview on “Fresh Air,” we highly recommend it.)

As you can see above, we celebrated the good news with a few books and a few beers. 

Photography by Danny Wilcox Frazier

In Detroit: An American Autopsy, Pulitzer Prize winner Charlie LeDuff returns to his native city, where his mother’s flower shop is firebombed in the pre-Halloween orgy of arson known as Devil’s Night; where his sister loses herself to the west side streets; where his brother, who once sold subprime mortgages, now works in a factory cleaning Chinese-manufactured screws so they can be repackaged as “May Be Made in United States.”

LeDuff on NPR’s “Fresh Air”: “Look, people go to Rome to stare at the ruin porn. [Detroit] is a very fascinating place to look at. It’s difficult to live in it, and basically you see the pain’s not over. It hurts because that factory is where my dad was working. That’s why it’s hard. … When they say ‘ruin porn’ they’re talking about empty, abandoned structures. My work has to do with living, breathing people and the difficult task of getting through this moment — which we will — and building a future. So no, I don’t look at it as ruin porn at all. This is a document of us getting ourselves back together.”

In Detroit: An American Autopsy, Pulitzer Prize winner Charlie LeDuff returns to his native city, where his mother’s flower shop is firebombed in the pre-Halloween orgy of arson known as Devil’s Night; where his sister loses herself to the west side streets; where his brother, who once sold subprime mortgages, now works in a factory cleaning Chinese-manufactured screws so they can be repackaged as “May Be Made in United States.” (Newsweek says: “Others have written well about the city, but none with the visceral anger, the hair-tearing frustration, and the hungry humanity of LeDuff.”)
Photograph by Danny Wilcox Frazier

I reached down the pant cuff with the eraser end of my pencil and poked it. Frozen solid. But definitely human.
"Goddamn."
I took a deep breath through my cigarette. I didn’t want to use my nose. It was late January, the air scorching cold. The snow was falling sideways as it usually did in Detroit this time of year. The dead man was encased in at least four feet of ice at the bottom of a defunct elevator shaft in an abandoned building. But still, there was no telling what the stink might be like.
I couldn’t make out his face. The only things protruding above the ice were the feet, dressed in some white sweat socks and a pair of black gym shoes. I could see the hem of his jacket below the surface. The rest of him tapered off into the void.
In most cities, a death scene like this would be considered remarkable, mind-blowing, horrifying. But not here. Something had happened in Detroit while I was away.
I had left the city two decades earlier to try to make a life for myself that didn’t involve a slow death working in a chemical factory or a liquor store. Any place but those places.
But where? I wandered for years, working my way across Asia, Europe, the Arctic edge working as a cannery hand, a carpenter, a drifter. And then I settled into the most natural thing for a man with no real talents.
Journalism.
It required no expertise, no family connections and no social graces. Furthermore, it seemed to be the only job that paid you to travel, excluding a door-to-door Bible salesman. Nearly thirty years old, I went back to school to study the inverted pyramid of writing. I landed my first newspaper job with the Alaska Fisherman’s Journal, where I wrote dispatches in longhand on legal pads and mailed them back to headquarters in Seattle.
So I went out into the Last Frontier with my notepad and a tent and wrote what I saw: stuff about struggling fishermen, a mountain woman who drank too much and dried her panties on a line stretched across the bow of her boat, Mexican laborers forced to live in the swamps, a prince who lived under a bridge, a gay piano man on a fancy cruise liner. People managing somehow. My kind of people. The job suited me.
Working off that, I tried to land a real job but couldn’t find one. The Detroit Free Pressdidn’t want me. Not the San Francisco Chronicle. Not the Oakland Tribune. I was thinking about returning to the Alaskan fishing boats until a little Podunk paper called me with an offer of a summer internship — the New York Times.
Luck counts too.
I ended up working at the Gray Lady for a decade, sketching the lives of hustlers and working stiffs and firemen at Ground Zero. It was a good run. But wanderlust is like a pretty girl — you wake up one morning, find she’s grown old and decide that either you’re going to commit your life or you’re going to walk away. I walked away, and as it happens in life, I circled home, taking a job with the Detroit News. My colleagues in New York laughed. The paper was on death watch. And so was the city.
It is important to note that, growing up in Detroit and its suburbs, I can honestly say it was never that good in the first place. People of older generations like to tell me about the swell old days of soda fountains and shopping stores and lazy Saturday night drives. But the fact is Detroit was dying forty years ago when the Japanese began to figure out how to make a better car. The whole country knew the city and the region was on the skids, and the whole country laughed at us. A bunch of lazy, uneducated blue-collar incompetents. The Rust Belt. The Rust Bowl. Forget about it. Florida was calling.
No one cared much about Detroit until the Dow collapsed in 2008, the economy melted down and the chief executives of the Big Three went to Washington, D. C., to grovel. Suddenly the eyes of the nation turned back upon this postindustrial sarcophagus, where crime and corruption and mismanagement and mayhem played themselves out in the corridors of power and on the powerless streets.
Detroit became epic, historic, symbolic, hip even. I began to get calls from reporters around the world wondering what the city was like, what was happening here. They wondered if the Rust Belt cancer had metastasized and was creeping toward Los Angeles and London and Barcelona. Was Detroit an outlier or an epicenter? Was Detroit a symbol of the greater decay? Is the Motor City the future of America? Are we living through a cycle or an epoch? Suddenly they weren’t laughing out there anymore.
Journalists parachuted into town. The subjects in my Detroit News stories started appearing in Rolling Stone and the Wall Street Journal, on NPR and PBS and CNN, but under someone else’s byline. The reporters rarely, if ever, offered nuanced appraisals of the city and its place in the American landscape. They simply took a tour of the ruins, ripped off the local headlines, pronounced it awful here and left.
And it is awful here, there is no other way to say it. But I believe that Detroit is America’s city. It was the vanguard of our way up, just as it is the vanguard of our way down. And one hopes the vanguard of our way up again. Detroit is Pax Americana. The birthplace of mass production, the automobile, the cement road, the refrigerator, frozen peas, high-paid blue-collar jobs, home ownership and credit on a mass scale. America’s way of life was built here.
It’s where installment purchasing on a large scale was invented in 1919 by General Motors to sell their cars. It was called the Arsenal of Democracy in the 1940s, the place where the war machines were made to stop the march of fascism.
So important was the Detroit way of doing things that its automobile executives in the fifties and sixties went to Washington and imprinted the military with their management style and structure. Robert McNamara was the father of the Ford Falcon and the architect of the Vietnam War. Charlie Wilson was the president of General Motors and Eisenhower’s man at the Pentagon, who famously said he thought that “what was good for our country was good for General Motors, and vice versa.”
If what Wilson said is true, then so too must be its opposite.

You can read the rest of this excerpt in Jalopnik.

In Detroit: An American Autopsy, Pulitzer Prize winner Charlie LeDuff returns to his native city, where his mother’s flower shop is firebombed in the pre-Halloween orgy of arson known as Devil’s Night; where his sister loses herself to the west side streets; where his brother, who once sold subprime mortgages, now works in a factory cleaning Chinese-manufactured screws so they can be repackaged as “May Be Made in United States.” (Newsweek says: “Others have written well about the city, but none with the visceral anger, the hair-tearing frustration, and the hungry humanity of LeDuff.”)

Photograph by Danny Wilcox Frazier

I reached down the pant cuff with the eraser end of my pencil and poked it. Frozen solid. But definitely human.

"Goddamn."

I took a deep breath through my cigarette. I didn’t want to use my nose. It was late January, the air scorching cold. The snow was falling sideways as it usually did in Detroit this time of year. The dead man was encased in at least four feet of ice at the bottom of a defunct elevator shaft in an abandoned building. But still, there was no telling what the stink might be like.

I couldn’t make out his face. The only things protruding above the ice were the feet, dressed in some white sweat socks and a pair of black gym shoes. I could see the hem of his jacket below the surface. The rest of him tapered off into the void.

In most cities, a death scene like this would be considered remarkable, mind-blowing, horrifying. But not here. Something had happened in Detroit while I was away.

I had left the city two decades earlier to try to make a life for myself that didn’t involve a slow death working in a chemical factory or a liquor store. Any place but those places.

But where? I wandered for years, working my way across Asia, Europe, the Arctic edge working as a cannery hand, a carpenter, a drifter. And then I settled into the most natural thing for a man with no real talents.

Journalism.

It required no expertise, no family connections and no social graces. Furthermore, it seemed to be the only job that paid you to travel, excluding a door-to-door Bible salesman. Nearly thirty years old, I went back to school to study the inverted pyramid of writing. I landed my first newspaper job with the Alaska Fisherman’s Journal, where I wrote dispatches in longhand on legal pads and mailed them back to headquarters in Seattle.

So I went out into the Last Frontier with my notepad and a tent and wrote what I saw: stuff about struggling fishermen, a mountain woman who drank too much and dried her panties on a line stretched across the bow of her boat, Mexican laborers forced to live in the swamps, a prince who lived under a bridge, a gay piano man on a fancy cruise liner. People managing somehow. My kind of people. The job suited me.

Working off that, I tried to land a real job but couldn’t find one. The Detroit Free Pressdidn’t want me. Not the San Francisco Chronicle. Not the Oakland Tribune. I was thinking about returning to the Alaskan fishing boats until a little Podunk paper called me with an offer of a summer internship — the New York Times.

Luck counts too.

I ended up working at the Gray Lady for a decade, sketching the lives of hustlers and working stiffs and firemen at Ground Zero. It was a good run. But wanderlust is like a pretty girl — you wake up one morning, find she’s grown old and decide that either you’re going to commit your life or you’re going to walk away. I walked away, and as it happens in life, I circled home, taking a job with the Detroit News. My colleagues in New York laughed. The paper was on death watch. And so was the city.

It is important to note that, growing up in Detroit and its suburbs, I can honestly say it was never that good in the first place. People of older generations like to tell me about the swell old days of soda fountains and shopping stores and lazy Saturday night drives. But the fact is Detroit was dying forty years ago when the Japanese began to figure out how to make a better car. The whole country knew the city and the region was on the skids, and the whole country laughed at us. A bunch of lazy, uneducated blue-collar incompetents. The Rust Belt. The Rust Bowl. Forget about it. Florida was calling.

No one cared much about Detroit until the Dow collapsed in 2008, the economy melted down and the chief executives of the Big Three went to Washington, D. C., to grovel. Suddenly the eyes of the nation turned back upon this postindustrial sarcophagus, where crime and corruption and mismanagement and mayhem played themselves out in the corridors of power and on the powerless streets.

Detroit became epic, historic, symbolic, hip even. I began to get calls from reporters around the world wondering what the city was like, what was happening here. They wondered if the Rust Belt cancer had metastasized and was creeping toward Los Angeles and London and Barcelona. Was Detroit an outlier or an epicenter? Was Detroit a symbol of the greater decay? Is the Motor City the future of America? Are we living through a cycle or an epoch? Suddenly they weren’t laughing out there anymore.

Journalists parachuted into town. The subjects in my Detroit News stories started appearing in Rolling Stone and the Wall Street Journal, on NPR and PBS and CNN, but under someone else’s byline. The reporters rarely, if ever, offered nuanced appraisals of the city and its place in the American landscape. They simply took a tour of the ruins, ripped off the local headlines, pronounced it awful here and left.

And it is awful here, there is no other way to say it. But I believe that Detroit is America’s city. It was the vanguard of our way up, just as it is the vanguard of our way down. And one hopes the vanguard of our way up again. Detroit is Pax Americana. The birthplace of mass production, the automobile, the cement road, the refrigerator, frozen peas, high-paid blue-collar jobs, home ownership and credit on a mass scale. America’s way of life was built here.

It’s where installment purchasing on a large scale was invented in 1919 by General Motors to sell their cars. It was called the Arsenal of Democracy in the 1940s, the place where the war machines were made to stop the march of fascism.

So important was the Detroit way of doing things that its automobile executives in the fifties and sixties went to Washington and imprinted the military with their management style and structure. Robert McNamara was the father of the Ford Falcon and the architect of the Vietnam War. Charlie Wilson was the president of General Motors and Eisenhower’s man at the Pentagon, who famously said he thought that “what was good for our country was good for General Motors, and vice versa.”

If what Wilson said is true, then so too must be its opposite.

You can read the rest of this excerpt in Jalopnik.

Charlie LeDuff, author of Detroit: An American Autopsy, stopped by Marketplace to talk about his home city. 

"Detroit built the American way of life, it built the middle class," said LeDuff. "Everything came out of coal and steel and rubber and cars — and it went away. And now we still have coherent car companies, but we don’t have the jobs, because those are gone. So what do we do with all the leftover people?"

The book details corruption of city officials and mismanagment of city funds, to the detriment of police officers and fire fighters who are left with little resources to support the population. 

He said the city still has plenty of humanity left, though. LeDuff dismissed the suggestion the book is a form of ruin porn.

"I’m not writing about buildings, that’s what people come here and do. They write about buildings and they take pictures of buildings and they seem to miss all the humanity that’s here," he said. "We’re living, breathing human beings who have dreams and children and wishes and hunger. That’s who I’m writing about. I’m writing about how hard it is to get through this, but the fact is, we are. And we’re fighters. So it’s not ruin porn. It’s about holding on.”

We’re giving away a few Advance Reader’s Copies of Charlie LeDuff’s Detroit: An American Autopsy on Goodreads. Mostly because we can’t stop thinking about it.
(Alexandra Fuller puts it best: “You wouldn’t think a book about the stinking decay of the American dream could be this engaging, this irreverent, this laugh-at-loud funny.”)

We’re giving away a few Advance Reader’s Copies of Charlie LeDuff’s Detroit: An American Autopsy on Goodreads. Mostly because we can’t stop thinking about it.

(Alexandra Fuller puts it best: “You wouldn’t think a book about the stinking decay of the American dream could be this engaging, this irreverent, this laugh-at-loud funny.”)