Zend and the Art of Typewriter Maintenance
I’m not into concrete poetry for the same reasons that Donald Barthelme wasn’t into conceptual art: it seems too easy, and once you “get” it, you don’t need it anymore. But it’s a lot easier to dismiss genres than individual artists. My exception to the rule is Robert Zend.
Imagine the British Museum and you have a pretty good idea of how McCarthy’s literary output is structured.
Each rejection is a charge against him read aloud in a courtroom. Each one is a lash, a punishment that he knowingly risked and eventually overcame.
Hello Christine Brooke-Rose, R.I.P.
The work of Christine Brooke-Rose reminds us that the joy of literature isn’t in recognition and confirmation, but in playful discovery.
The Life Expectancy of a Literary Journal
In 2012, to make yourself “un-googlable” is perhaps the ballsiest move any single group trying to communicate with people outside of that group can make.
Please Tell Me What This Means
The most vulgar machinations of capitalism mate with quasi-mystical mass-nostalgia, and you get a Confederate flag and pot leaf beach towel.
There’s something pretty absurd about all of this.
Satantango – László Krasznahorkai
It’s a bestiary of pathetic individuals worthy of Chaucer, Dickens, or some of the more involved Bob Dylan songs.
Some reactions to the trailer of the film adaptation of Kerouac’s ON THE ROAD.
How famous does something have to be to justify it having a walking tour? How heinous the crime?