So while we are throwing out requests, be it fall on deaf ears, I would really love to hear you read The Birthmark by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Any case, I am a 1st time listener, and you got me!.. we should have dinner sometime!

I LOVE your podcast! I’m a long-time audio book listener and am thrilled to have found your website. Your reading is beautiful and I find myself transported into the story in a way that is almost magical. Keep up the great work– what a gift you give us all.

Vicki

When They Learned to Yelp by Dave Eggars from
How We are Hungry.

I am happy to count myself as one of your many avid listeners and fans. I found your podcast quite recently and am working my way through them all at an alarming pace. Your story selection is impressive and I enjoy your delivery immensely.

I wanted to recommend a short story that I feel is an almost perfect example of its genre and one that I feel would suit your performance style very well. It’s called Bullet in the Brain by Tobias Wolff. I’m including the text below for you to look over when you get a chance. Please excuse the slightly odd format of the text, I got it from the internet …

Again, thanks for a lovely time.

Best,

Maritxu de Alaiza
Los Angeles, CA

Bullet in the Brain
Tobias Wolff

Anders couldn’t get to the bank until just before it closed, so of course the line was endless and he
got stuck behind two women whose loud, stupid conversation put him in a murderous temper. He
was never in the best of tempers anyway, Anders – a book critic known for the weary, elegant
savagery with which he dispatched almost everything he reviewed.
With the line still doubled around the rope, one of the tellers stuck a “POSITION CLOSED” sign in
her window and walked to the back of the bank, where she leaned against a desk and began to pass
the time with a man shuffling papers. The women in front of Anders broke off their conversation
and watched the teller with hatred. “Oh, that’s nice,” one of them said. She turned to Anders and
add, confident of his accord, “One of those little human touches that keep us coming back for
more.”
Anders had conceived his own towering hatred of the teller, but he immediately turned it on the
presumptuous crybaby in front of him. “Damned unfair,” he said. “Tragic, really. If they’re not
chopping off the wrong leg, or bombing your ancestral village, they’re closing their positions.”
She stood her ground. “I didn’t say it was tragic,” she said. “I just think it’s a pretty lousy way to
treat your customers.”
“Unforgivable,” Anders said. “Heaven will take note.”
She sucked in her cheeks but stared pas him and said nothing. Anders saw that the other woman,
her friend, was looking in the same direction. And then the tellers stopped what they were doing,
and the customers slowly turned, and silence came over the bank. Two men wearing black ski
masks and blue business suits were standing to the side of the door. One of them had a pistol
pressed against the guard’s neck. The guard’s eyes were closed, and his lips were moving. The
other man had a sawed-off shotgun. “Keep your big mouth shut!” the man with the pistol said,
though no one had spoken a word. “One of you tellers hits the alarm, you’re all dead meat. Got
it?”
The tellers nodded.
“Oh, bravo, “Anders said. “Dead meat.” He turned to the woman in front of him. “Great script, eh?
The stern, brass-knuckled poetry of the dangerous classes.”
She looked at him with drowning eyes.
The man with the shotgun pushed the guard to his knees. He handed up the shotgun to his partner
and yanked the guard’s wrists up behind his back and locked them together with a pair of handcuffs.
He toppled him onto the floor with a kick between the shoulder blades. Then he took his shotgun
back and went over to the security gate at the end of the counter. He was short and heavy and
moved with peculiar slowness, even torpor. “Buzz him in,” his partner said. The man with the
shotgun opened the gate and sauntered along the line of tellers, handing each of them a Hefty bag.
When he came to the empty position he looked over at the man with the pistol, who said, “Whose
slot is that?”
Anders watched the teller. She put her hand to her throat and turned to the man she’d been talking
to. He nodded. “Mine,” she said.
“Then get your ugly ass in gear and fill that bag.”
“There you go,” Anders said to the woman in front of him. “Justice is done.”
“Hey! Bright boy! Did I tell you talk?”
“No,” Anders said.
“Then shut your trap.”
“Did you hear that?” Anders said. “’Bright boy.’ Right out of ‘The Killers’.”
“Please be quiet,” the woman said.
“Hey, you deaf or what?” The man with the pistol walked over to Anders. He poked the weapon
into Anders’ gut. “You think I’m playing games?”
“No,” Anders said, but the barrel tickled like a stiff finger and he had to fight back the titters. He
did this by making himself stare into the man’s eyes, which were clearly visible behind the holes in
the mask: pale blue, and rawly red-rimmed. The man’s left eyelid kept twitching. He breathed out
a piercing, ammoniac smell that shocked Anders more than anything that had happened, and he was
beginning to develop a sense of unease when the man prodded him again with the pistol.
“You like me, bright boy?” he said. “You want to suck my dick?”
“No,” Anders said.
“Then stop looking at me.”
Anders fixed his gaze on the man’s shiny wing-top shoes.
“Not down there. Up there.” He stuck the pistol under Anders’ chin and pushed it upward until
Anders was looking at the ceiling.
Anders had never paid much attention to that part of the bank, a pompous old building with marble
floors and counters and pillars, and gilt scrollwork over the tellers’ cages. The domed ceiling had
been decorated with mythological figures whose fleshy, toga-draped ugliness Anders had taken in at
a glance many years earlier and afterward declined to notice. Now he had no choice but to
scrutinize the painter’s work. It was even worse than he remembered, and all of it executed with the
utmost gravity. The artist had a few tricks up his sleeve and used them again and again – a certain
rosy blush on the underside of the clouds, a coy backward glance on the faces of the cupids and
fauns. The ceiling was crowded with various dramas, but the one that caught Anders’ eye was Zeus
and Europa – portrayed, in this rendition, as a bull ogling a cow from behind a haystack. To make
the cow sexy, the painter had canted her hips suggestively and given her long, droopy eyelashes
through which she gazed back at the bull with sultry welcome. The bull wore a smirk and his
eyebrows were arched. If there’d been a bubble coming out of his mouth, it would have said,
“Hubba hubba.”
“What’s so funny, bright boy?”
“Nothing.”
“You think I’m comical? You think I’m some kind of clown?”
“No.”
“You think you can fuck with me?”
“No.”
“Fuck with me again, you’re history. Capiche?”
Anders burst our laughing. He covered his mouth with both hands and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”
then snorted helplessly through his fingers and said, “Capiche – oh, God, capiche,” and at that the
man with the pistol raised the pistol and shot Anders right in the head.
The bullet smashed Anders’ skull and ploughed through his brain and exited behind his right ear,
scattering shards of bone into the cerebral cortex, the corpus callosum, back toward the basal
ganglia, and down into the thalamus. But before all this occurred, the first appearance of the bullet
in the cerebrum set off a crackling chain of ion transports and neuro-transmissions. Because of
their peculiar origin these traced a peculiar patter, flukishly calling to life a summer afternoon some
forty years past, and long since lost to memory. After striking the cranium the bullet was moving at
900 feet per second, a pathetically sluggish, glacial pace compared to the synaptic lighting that
flashed around it. Once in the brain, that is, the bullet came under the mediation of brain time,
which gave Anders plenty of leisure to contemplate the scene that, in a phrase he would have
abhorred, “passed before his eyes.”
It is worth noting what Ambers did not remember, given what he did remember. He did not
remember his first lover, Sherry, or what he had most madly loved about her, before it came to
irritate him – her unembarrassed carnality, and especially the cordial way she had with his unit,
which she called Mr. Mole, as in, “Uh-oh, looks like Mr. Mole wants to play,” and “Let’s hide Mr.
Mole!” Anders did not remember his wife, whom he had also loved before she exhausted him with
her predictability, or his daughter, now a sullen professor of economics at Dartmouth. He did not
remember standing just outside his daughter’s door as she lectured her bear about his naughtiness
and described the truly appalling punishments Paws would receive unless he changed his ways. He
did not remember a single line of the hundreds of poems he had committed to memory in his youth
so that he could give himself the shivers at will – not “Silent, upon a peak in Darien,” or “My God, I
heard this day,” or “All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?” None of these did he
remember; not one. Anders did not remember his dying mother saying of his father, “I should have
stabbed him in his sleep.”
He did not remember Professor Josephs telling his class how Athenian prisoners in Sicily had been
released if they could recite Aeschylus, and then reciting Aeschylus himself, right there, in the
Greek. Anders did not remember how his eyes had burned at those sounds. He did not remember
the surprise of seeing a college classmate’s name on the jacket of a novel not long after they
graduated, or the respect he had felt after reading the book. He did not remember the pleasure of
giving respect.
Nor did Anders remember seeing a woman leap to her death from the building opposite his own just
days after his daughter was born. He did not remember shouting, “Lord have mercy!” He did not
remember deliberately crashing his father’s car in to a tree, of having his ribs kicked in by three
policemen at an anti-war rally, or waking himself up with laughter. He did not remember when he
began to regard the heap of books on his desk with boredom and dread, or when he grew angry at
writers for writing them. He did not remember when everything began to remind him of something
else.
This is what he remembered. Heat. A baseball field. Yellow grass, the whirr of insects, himself
leaning against a tree as the boys of the neighborhood gather for a pickup game. He looks on as the
others argue the relative genius of Mantle and Mays. They have been worrying this subject all
summer, and it has become tedious to Anders: an oppression, like the heat.
Then the last two boys arrive, Coyle and a cousin of his from Mississippi. Anders has never met
Coyle’s cousin before and will never see him again. He says hi with the rest but takes no further
notice of him until they’ve chosen sides and some asks the cousin what position he wants to play.
“Shortstop,” the boy says. “Short’s the best position they is.” Anders turns and looks at him. He
wants to hear Coyle’s cousin repeat what he’s just said, but he knows better than to ask. The others
will think he’s being a jerk, ragging the kid for his grammar. But that isn’t it, not at all – it’s that
Anders is strangely roused, elated, by those final two words, their pure unexpectedness and their
music. He takes the field in a trance, repeating them to himself.
The bullet is already in the brain; it won’t be outrun forever, or charmed to a halt. In the end it will
do its work and leave the troubled skull behind, dragging its comet’s tail of memory and hope and
talent and love into the marble hall of commerce. That can’t be helped. But for now Anders can
still make time. Time for the shadows to lengthen on the grass, time for the tethered dog to bark at
the flying ball, time for the boy in right field to smack his sweat-blackened mitt and softly chant,
They is, they is, they is.

miettecast.com/2008/06/01/a-rose-for-emily/

(given the nature of this story, “this one’s for you” seems a creepy dedication, but, uh, you asked for it)

But I worry that I’ll be infringing on copyright and stuff…I mean I don’t care if YOU are doing something illegal…I just want to know if IIII were to do it if it would be illegal. ‘Cause I wanna jump in the game, y’know?

Just prolly the 1000th comment saying this is a fantastic initiative, thanks for taking your time to do this, and looking forward to many more podcasts.

Danke schon!

I don’t know how you feel about Joyce Carol Oates, but I’d love to hear you read “Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been?” Thanks!

I am also having the problem where I think the podcast cuts out early, and quite frequenly at that. I hope it gets fixed soon!

I discovered your podcast recently (on iTunes) and love it to pieces. Being a frazzled insomniac of a third year student, who barely has time to feed her bibliophilia, your podcast really helps. I’ve actually been inspired to start a podcast myself on my own blog…even if it isn’t really an ‘official’ podcast due to no RSS feed and zero funding.

I really do love your stories. Thanks for keeping my fiction addiction alive! More power to you and good luck!

- N.C.
Philippines

(BTW, you can listen to my first “podcast” on the link I left. =P sorry to be so very, very presumptuous but I couldn’t resist. It’s sort of like giving your demo tape to an artist you like, I think.)

Love your recordings. Any place we can download from your very first one and get them all?

thanks
Rick

Don’t mind the dog. Please continue.

best,
MP

I found your site after looking for the text of the story ‘Gods’ by Vladimir Nabokov. When I listened, as I walked up a hill where I live on the border between Wales and England, I pictured you for some reason as a character in a short film by Kristof Kieslowski.

I am going to buy a cheap mp3 player, download your entire oeuvre, and slowly work through it.

Argh my paragraph breaks are not showing for some reason.

Anyway here is a list of my favourite short stories, it would be great if you had a chance to read one of them:

Stories that squeeze my brain: Cloud, castle, lake by Vladimir Nabokov; A clean, well-lighted place, by Ernest Hemingway; The swimmer, by John Cheever; Teddy, by JD Salinger.

Fable-type stories: Funes the memorious, by Jorge Luis Borges; The distance of the moon, by Italo Calvino; Harry Belten and the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto, by Barry Targan.

Uncategorisable stories: Ping, by Samuel Beckett (it makes absolutely no sense to me but I love the rhythms)

I would like to humbly recommend the short stories of the deliciously and wickedly talented H.H. Munroe, better known as Saki. Favorites of mine are:

Sredni Vashtar
The Reticence of Lady Anne
The Lumber-Room
The Open Window
Tobermory
and there are many many more gems.

Would just LOVE to hear you read them.

I have been trying for several days now to download your Cornell Woolrich short story in two parts “It Had to be Murder” onto my iPod, but every time it downloads the most recent story in the subscription. Is this still available, and how do I go about getting it? I have scrolled to the specific parts 1 and 2 and clicked “get episode” but it never appears in my library. Please help!

Thanks,
ET

I work a monotonous programming job, whilst loosing a piece of my sanity with every keystroke. But your podcast, along with your lovely speaking voice, has brightened my otherwise gloomy cubical imprisonment. Those words you speak flow as honey through my squishy head phones; trickling down through every nook of gray matter. My only hope is to linger onwards waiting for that sequential dose of exhilaration provided by you.

Best of wishes,

Danny

I can’t thank you enough for the fantastic PODCAST. I just started listening, but now look forward to each show.

I just recently found your podcast and I’ve spent all day listening to your wonderful voice and your marvelous stories. I think I’m in love with you; I’m hart broken because I’m thinking that, after reading some of your comments, you may be a lesbian. If you are it is a great loss for mankind. I don’t know what you look like, but I know that you are beautiful.

I love your accent. Is it Scottish?

I was thinking back to my high school English days, and remembered these stories. Just thought I would throw them out there as suggestions as they are all great.

“A & P” by John Updike
“The Scarlet Ibis” by James Hurst
“Rape Fantasies” by Margaret Atwood
“Lamb To The Slaughter” by Roald Dahl

Thanks again. You are appreciated.

I was thinking back to my high school English days, and remembered these stories. Just thought I would throw them out there as suggestions as they are all great.

“A & P” by John Updike
“The Scarlet Ibis” by James Hurst
“Rape Fantasies” by Margaret Atwood
“Lamb To The Slaughter” by Roald Dahl

Thanks again. You are appreciated.

I’m writing from Toronto, Canada and I believe your podcast is outstanding. I chuckled as I heard your comments on Tissue Culture. I am a physician but also have a PhD in Human Genetics: During my doctorate I spent many hours, weeks, years doing tissue culture and didn’t have an ipod then. Instead, I would borrow books on tape from my library to get me through the dull hours spent at the scientific bench. Tissue culture is a sterile technique of growing cells in a special medium on round, covered, plastic dishes inside a sterile fume hood. We would usually blast the radio loudly to drown out how boring the process was of splitting cells and growing them to do experiments. Thank goodness my tissue culture days are behind me. So, to your listener who is enjoying your podcast while “tissue culturing”, take note: keep listening, remember sterile technique, and, most of all, you won’t be doing it forever!

Best,
Dr. Dave

—-With peas, (visualize Whirld Peas)

Tim

If I had truckloads of money, I’d give you some — but as it is, I can only offer to help you with your tissue culture.

And I still would very much like to know where you are from! I’ve checked your FAQ and I understand you don’t really fancy answering this question, but you see I’m learning English (it’s not my first language)and therefore I listen to your podcast not only because of the books, but also in order to improve my language, so I was wondering what accent you had… That’s also sort of important for me, because I am going to be a linguist. I’m assuming you are British, so maybe you could at least tell me if I’m wrong?

Anyways thanks for your work.

If you’re listening to the earlier recordings, you’re probably hearing this haunting lo-fi intro to a song called Martian, written by Philip Shelley.

Miette’s Theme, the jingle that’s by my reckoning associated with most readings by this point, was written by the much-missed Dream Smith, who was kind of guy who, when you’d say “I’m going to start reading stories to the internet,” would turn around and say “oh, you need a theme song. Give me a week” and then proceed to send you something that to this day, you think Steve Albini must have secretly produced, the way it leeches onto your skin from the inside. You can download the theme if you want. Everybody should know Dream’s music, which is being archived and can be downloaded over here.

And if these end up sampled in the next Britney mashup and you make your millions from them, I’ll turn up at your door, ready to collect.

Any ideas?