Full Stop

But my inner critic is the one who writes in the first place.

Loving art was a huge part of why I became a socialist. My parents wanted me to be a doctor, and I spent a lot of my youth really arguing for the arts.

The priceless contribution of Heberlein’s book, for all its occasional bowdlerizing, is that it offers the requisite connective tissue for the grand and the ground-level.

There’s theoretical forgiveness, and then there’s personal forgiveness.

The priceless contribution of Heberlein’s book, for all its occasional bowdlerizing, is that it offers the requisite connective tissue for the grand and the ground-level.

Brar’s book marks an important step in understanding the value of this music and how it allowed these black electronic musicians, DJ’s and MC’s to prosper against all the odds.

A Strange Woman tells of a woman’s love affair with life, though it is a life that existed before her and will exist long after.

Critics reading Tove Ditlevsen’s work will dutifully make reference to her working-class roots, but seem unwilling to consider what impact these experiences might have had on her as a young writer.

But my inner critic is the one who writes in the first place.

Loving art was a huge part of why I became a socialist. My parents wanted me to be a doctor, and I spent a lot of my youth really arguing for the arts.

There’s theoretical forgiveness, and then there’s personal forgiveness.

This connects to an anxiety I’ve had since childhood about wanting to record everything that’s ever happened, which is perhaps simply a fear of my own mortality, as well as the mortality of everything in this beautiful world.

The plan was to say adieu and die, alone, by the pond. And if this was indeed her plan, it was a plan that went spectacularly awry.

Without any dogmatic adherence to the collection of conspiracies, QAnon followers often choose which of the individual narratives to follow within the larger collection, a build-your-own history.

As we look to philosophers, our sense of failure only grows in intensity.

The Gaddis I like best to think of is a God-haunted aristocrat. Thrown pearl-clutching into a fallen world, he gathers himself and understands it as his task to recognize what instances of the eternal still obtain, among things melted into air.

The author could be working safely at their desk or drowsing in bed, and remember some improbable situation or weak sentence, and the presumed-dead book feels somehow still half-alive…

Building an audible nest for intensifying, as a bird might shed drab feathers for bright ones in a time of courtship, an ordinary song for a mating call, my sonic ornament was a customized flush of puberty, a condensed libidinal vehemence.

Publishing’s leaders composed careful statements in the height of this summer’s protests for racial justice. But these ring hollow in the face of an industry rife with sexism, classism, and racism.

We discuss travel writing, its pitfalls, and what might come after the pandemic … if there’s really going to be an after.