Bill Marx
Ether Dome is nothing if not ironic: a dire need for relief generates a mess of pain.
The tragedy of King Lear never takes hold because you know that soon someone is going to pick up an accordion and with a ‘Hey, Nonny Nonny’ dance those blues away.
“The Boston Book Festival is doing really well. It feels like an established part of Boston’s cultural scene.”
Imaginary Beasts is to be congratulated for bringing public attention to the brilliant, idiosyncratic-to–the-max-and-beyond work of Daniil Kharms, a writer silenced by Stalin.
In The Days Trilogy, Expanded Edition, H. L. Mencken comes off as a marvelously mellowed master, his trademark savagery smoothed over, its energy focused on generating a pungently picturesque vision of a vanished America.
Serbian writer David Albahari’s fascination with uncertainty fuels a grim, sardonic tragi-comedy in which silence plays an elemental but enigmatic role.
When it comes to race relations, America has a lot on its plate — there is no good reason to serve leftovers.
We intend to stage work by all the living American poets we can lure into our sphere: starting right here in Cambridge.
Today’s increasingly corporate-approved theater stays within safe, civic-minded boundaries.
Despite commentary to the contrary, Jonathan Blumhofer thinks that in the negotiations between the Met management and the unions there was a winner and a loser.
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