There are times where the real subject of [Muratov’s] description seems to be not examples of art, places, or even people, but the relatively fleeting moments in between these things, which appear here almost by accident, like bystanders in a Polaroid.
The conflict between realism and its alternatives may still be going strong, but when it comes to the centrality of the protagonist, there’s no conflict, only agreement.
Dundy’s novels fit our times well while also existing blissfully without any of this baggage. Her characters are often selfish and reckless, but there’s nothing forced in these stories.
In this sensitively observed collection, the freedom to define oneself is achieved not only through the rebellion against cultural constraints, but also the embrace of the provisional nature of identity.
The rest of the academic world has left the subject behind because we, ostensibly, already have institutes and authors to cover this subject. This situation is not inevitable, but only the result of the political right staking their claim to the subject of antisemitism.
Freely/Dawe represent what they have produced as a translation when, by any fair definition of the word, it isn’t. To make matters worse—much worse—they misread the Turkish again and again.
The malcontents of quarantine life—especially for women—recall other forms of domestic confinement, from self-inflicted agoraphobia to endless household drudgery.