Thomas Jones

Thomas Jones edits the LRB blog, and presents the LRB podcast, from Orvieto.


Sonic Boom

16 July 1998

An article by Martin Amis in the Guardian earlier this year touches on John Sturrock’s review of Sokal and Bricmont (LRB, 16 July). After observing the relationship between the speed of a car and the damage inflicted on a body struck by that car, Amis claims that he ‘finally understood’ E=mc2. His remarkable failure to understand Einstein’s equation and apparent ignorance of the considerably...

Absolute Arse

10 May 2001

Thomas Jones writes: I said of ‘Shelf Life’ that its ‘working title’ was ‘The Curse of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin’ because that’s what the story was called in the proof copy of Neonlit sent to the LRB. On the strength of his story, I look forward to reading Bromley’s novel; let’s just hope it doesn’t turn into ‘Another One Bites the Dust’.

Poor Excuse

4 January 2007

‘Somewhat implausibly, public opinion, skilfully manipulated by Crowley’s legal team, is on the side of the plaintiff,’ I said, commenting on Michael Crichton’s depiction of the trial of a paedophile rapist in his new novel (LRB, 4 January). I should of course have said ‘defendant’: the situation is so implausible, even my word processor didn’t believe me.

Compliments of Sorts

10 September 2009

I’m amused that where I wrote ‘people’, James Wood seems to have read ‘reviewers in the mainstream American press’ (Letters, 5 November). But to accept that narrow definition, and to answer his question (when has anyone complained that Pynchon’s characters aren’t proper, ‘sympathetic’ characters?): Michiko Kakutani said of Against the Day in the New York Times that ‘because these...

Nothing to Read

5 April 2012

Thomas Jones writes: I wrote ‘nothing to read/nothing to say’, but a scrupulous colleague corrected it according to the published lyrics (my fault: I meant to warn them not to but forgot). They also changed ‘drifting into my solitary’ (with its overtones of ‘confinement’) to ‘solitude’, again according to the lyrics as usually printed but not what Bowie sings. Or at least, not what...

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences