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This translation of “Poems of Consummation” is important for several reasons, one of which is that the 1977 Nobel prizewinner—despite the award—has long been insufficiently preeminent in our Anglo-American view of twentieth-century Spanish poetry.
The astute filmmakers, Scott McGehee and David Siegel, seem not at all intimidated by Henry James’s formidable prose.
If Plato had known of mind meld, you can be sure he would have applied to be a Vulcan.
The music Allan Chase’s septet presented at the Lily Pad on Wednesday night made a cogent argument for Sun Ra’s place among the great jazz composers.
I confess: I also was among those who witnessed Peter Rowan play a zillion years ago, circa 1970, when he sang like an angel with Bill Monroe and the Blue Grass Boys.
Like some of the best New Wave films of the ’60s, “Frances Ha” brims with the giddy optimism of youth.
Boston’s Outside the Box festival falls far short of its stated mission to be “revolutionary” or “world class.”
Palma Violets are the greatest live band I’ve ever seen. I’m not backing down from that.
Vampire Weekend may hail from New York City, but with their boat shoes, button downs, and lyrics like, “Irish and proud, baby, naturally/But you got the luck of a Kennedy,” Massachusetts is their true spiritual home.
This fascinating book ends, leaving the reader with all sorts of questions — but that is exactly what really good fiction always does. Opening our minds, etching characters in our imaginations, and generating all sorts of possibilities.
Arts Commentary: The Boston Symphony’s New Humanities Blueprint Makes Sense