Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing to be so little reached as with criticism. Only love can grasp and hold and fairly judge them. — Rainer Maria Rilke
In December 1962, the New York Times asked some of the year’s bestselling authors to write a piece describing “what they believe there is about their book or the climate of the times that has made [their book] so popular.” . . .
I’ve admired Canadian poet, essayist, Greek and Latin scholar, and librettist, Anne Carson for a long time now. I think I first heard about her as a professor of classics at McGill University who was writing amazing stuff, starting with . . .
I am reading Mavis Gallant on Malibu Beach. Sleek and sunset-lit, surfers weave around one another, a small army in their glistening black uniforms. They lean and swerve until walls of crumbling foam swallow them. Behind me, Porsches and Jaguars . . .
In the past few years, some extraordinary non-fiction has been published about India, often dealing with poverty in a way that is gripping, funny, humane, and thought-provoking. These books are superbly reported but could also be read by some as . . .
I lived in New York City through the 1980s, and one of the glories of that time was attending performances presented at the Brooklyn Academy of Music under Harvey Lichtenstein. I have a vivid memory of taking the subway from . . .
The Incomplete Thombu is an artist’s book project commissioned and published by Raking Leaves. Thombu, a word derived from the Greek tomos, from which the Latin tome, or large book, originates, was a term used by the . . .
Stan Dragland
The announcement of Mac Jamieson’s recent death brought memories of my 1970s involvement with Mac and his wife, Jill, and Mike Niederman, all of Applegarth Follies in London, Ontario, and the birth of Brick, a journal of . . .
