Yet another tired page in a growing collection of articles that are inexplicably obsessed with the apparent demise of middle-class, heterosexual romance and the endless perils of being a millennial twenty-something.
Hoffman’s biographical passages, expert arrangement of Joseph Roth’s correspondence, and crisp footnotes yield a full arc of synchronised decay — the social fabric of Europe, Roth’s career, and his worldview — all in unison.
O’Connor mentioned this self-portrait in letters to friends, enclosed copies of it to pen pals she had never met, and begged publishers to include it on book jackets. According to O’Connor’s wry reports, it was not well-received, so what could explain her fixation on the painting?
In a world where most cultural biproducts from the nineties are revered for being so bad they’re good, I’m shocked at Swans’ relatively absent cult following. Where are the VHS trading posts? Where is the fan fiction? Why aren’t more people reminiscing the crap out of this awful show?
As Charles de Saint Evremond writes in his Miscellaneous Essays (1692), “When a Man, intoxicated with reading, makes his first step in the World, ’tis usually a false one.”
If poets are uncomfortable writing a poem to celebrate the president, why do we keep having someone come and read a poem written especially for the occasion?