Michael Schaub
In the eight months that I’ve lived where I live now, I’ve probably walked around my neighborhood hundreds of times. I have dogs; my neighbors all know their names, but not mine. I have memorized every front yard, every awning on every business, from the plumbing supply store (“The Water Heater King”) to the deli with the big Oregon Lottery sign in front to the punk-rock strip club I live behind. But I don’t really remember these walks, or most of them. To complain that Americans don’t read enough European fiction is to commit the mortal sin of extreme obviousness. The studied ignorance of literary fiction from anywhere besides the United States (and 99% of literary fiction from within the United States) has to be annoying to non-American authors, but they shouldn’t feel alone—Americans ignore pretty much everything that comes out of Europe, with the possible exceptions of supermodels and sports cars. It’s true that a few European authors have broken through in the States—Roddy Doyle, Stieg Larsson, Ian McEwan—but it’s also true that as hard as it is for deserving American