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From the Paris Review blog, book shopping with the best read man in America:

"Westerns," he said immediately. "It's the one genre I don't know much about. Though I love the best ones: Little Big Man and Lonesome Dove." More books came dancing out in his hands: Jan Potocki's The Sargasso Manuscript, Tim Powers' The Anubis Gates, a compilation called Nightmare Age edited by Frederik Pohl, Thorne Smith's Night Life of the Gods. He then found a copy of Russell Hoban's Riddley Walker and held it in the loving way I was beginning to recognize. "Now this," he said, "this is one of the great books of our time." I have a copy at home, bought years earlier on the strength of a Dirda essay. For probably the fiftieth time, I resolved to it read it imminently.

And, from the LARB, the literature of hockey. (I so wish I had this resource when my father was alive; he would have loved these books.):

Indeed, while the likes of Ring Lardner, Jack London, A.J. Liebling, P.G. Wodehouse, Norman Mailer, Fred Exley, Bernard Malamud, W.C. Heinz, John McPhee, Dan Jenkins, Donald Hall, Philip Roth, David Halberstam, Willie Morris, and Plimpton himself (among many others) were creating a small, vital, sports-lit cannon that revolved about baseball, boxing, football, basketball, horse racing, golf, and the Olympics, there was no must-read hockey novel, no classic memoir, no go-to oral history. Only in the works of Mordecai Richler could readers catch glimpses of the ice.

He mentions Roch Carrier's classic picture book, The Hockey Sweater - I read that to my son from the time he was a toddler. As a lifelong Canadiens fan who grew up on stories of Maurice Richard, I have always loved it.

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