Books
There can be no future, Héctor Abad seems to be arguing, when everything you are is hidden away in a time you can never fully know.
In all of his books, John Julius Norwich remembered that history is a story.
One of the fears of poets and, I imagine, all writers, is that you’ll reach a certain age and you’ll run out of gas.
If Charlie Harmon’s story jumps around a bit and reads rather like a series of diary entries, it’s at the very least engaging and, for the most part, entertaining.
While Beth Genné proffers a terrific take on dance and its social context, she exhibits a shaky grasp of musical-theater history.
Deborah Eisenberg’s stories pull you in and imitate life in an uncanny way.
Despite its occasional confusions, this is poetry I will return to — to re-experience A.E. Stallings’ wit, wisdom, and word-smithing.
K.K. Downing does not trash Judas Priest or its legacy, but he gives, from his perspective, an honest and believable assessment of the group and his role in it.
This slender memoir reads like a rambling conversation with a literary stranger you meet on a train.
Book Commentary: Karl Ove Knausgaard’s “Why I Write” — Incomplete Answer
The old questions, good as they are, are going to be augmented with new ones: Are we creating a world worth living in? Are we creating a world we can continue to live in?
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