Watching the crisis in Ukraine unfold, it is easy to forget how much worse it could have been. In 1991 Ukraine had the third largest nuclear arsenal in the world. Many of these weapons were stored in the Crimea. What might have happened if Ukraine had not disarmed?
“I could never have written a book like that,” a friend and writer remarked to me of my first novel, “for fear of what my mother would say.” “Parks’s nearest and dearest,” wrote the novelist Patrick Gale, reviewing another book of mine, “must await each of his publications with growing trepidation.” The fascinating question about works of literature that risk arousing the hostility of the author’s loved ones is: Can a novel be written without any concern for the consequences? Will the story perhaps be “edited” to avoid the worst? Or is awareness of the possible reaction part of the energy feeding the book?
Whatever course the Russian intervention may take, it is not an attempt to stop a fascist coup, since nothing of the kind has taken place. What has taken place is a popular revolution, with all of the messiness, confusion, and opposition that entails. The young leaders of the Maidan, some of them radical leftists, have risked their lives to oppose a regime that represented, at an extreme, the inequalities that we criticize at home.
Iranian director Asghar Farhadi seems to enjoy casting beautiful actresses and then making us forget their beauty, degrading them with their unhappiness and the ineptitude of their actions. Everyone becomes hypnotically normal under his gaze, and this is why one ends up feeling so intensely for his characters.
Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni claims he signed an anti-gay bill into law because there is no scientific evidence that homosexuality is determined by a person’s genes, and is therefore “deviant” behavior. But my own research suggests homosexuality, and all sexual preference for that matter, is probably at least partly genetic.
In the end the best-known, and possibly even the most powerful of Mexico’s many, many drug traffickers was pretty much where he’d always been: in his home state of Sinaloa. His capture was so easy one wonders if he was tired of the hard life, needing relief from the pressure of transporting thousands of tons of drugs and the daily agony of deciding whom to kill.
These days, I look in disbelief at many of the books on my shelves, from thick novels and memoirs to works of great philosophers, wondering whether it’s really possible that I devoted weeks or even months reading them. I know that I did, but only because opening them, I find passages and phrases I’ve underlined, which upon rereading I recall better than the plots, characters, and ideas I encountered in these books; what has made the lasting impression on my literary taste buds, to use culinary terms, are crumbs strewn on the table rather than the whole meal.
Millions of German and Austrian viewers thought Generation War, first broadcast in three episodes on German TV, and now released as a two-part movie in the US, was wonderful. So why has there been so much fuss about it, especially in Poland, where the filmmakers were accused of “falsifying history”?
Blue pencils, blue noses, blue movies, laws, blue legs and stockings, the language of birds, bees, and flowers as sung by longshoremen, that lead-like look the skin has when affected by cold, contusion, sickness, fear; the rotten rum or gin they call blue ruin and the blue devils of its delirium; Russian cats and oysters; Nova Scotians, hair rinse, bluing, bleach…
David O. Russell’s American Hustle declares what it is about with disarming bluntness. The two con artists around whom it revolves confide to us in voice-over right at the start: Sydney (Amy Adams), aka Lady Edith Greensley, wanted “to become anyone else other than who I was.” Irving (Christian Bale) acknowledges that “we even con ourselves.”