Was Emily Dickinson a radical poet of the avant-garde, challenging regularized notions of stanza shape, typography, visual and verbal presentation, erotic love? Or was she a poet of restraint, restricting herself to a few traditional patterns of meter and stanza? It is a conflict reaching back to “The War Between the Houses,” when Dickinson’s manuscripts were divided into two main collections.
Until a couple of years ago, a reviewer observes, Tim Parks’s novels were remorseless in suggesting that we are who we are, can’t change, character is destiny, family is destiny, habits of mind are destiny; any thought of changing these things drags us toward madness and self-destruction. The reviewer feels a little let-down that in my recent work there is some movement away from this position.
My favorite writing implement continues to be a stub of a pencil and my favorite writing surface the back of an electric bill. I like to sit at the kitchen table my wife uses to chop onions and shed tears on, because every time I’m unable to think of what to write, the refrigerator opens and here comes a plate of cold pasta.
As the US prepares to send more than two hundred athletes to Sochi, concerns about terrorism continue to mount. The December bombings in Volgograd might have been anticipated or even thwarted if the FSB had not botched an earlier investigation. Meanwhile, continued threats provide a convenient pretext for more crackdowns on civil rights.
President Viktor Yanukovych, in having the deputies of his Party of Regions endorse an extraordinary packet of legislation, has arrogated decisive political power to himself. In procedure and in content the laws “passed” by the Ukrainian parliament this week contravene the most basic rights of modern constitutional democracies: to speech, assembly, and representation.
The theme of Bill de Blasio’s successful mayoral campaign was “a tale of two cities,” his metaphor for the widening gulf between the privileged and the powerless. In urban design, nothing could have made that split clearer than the contrasting fortunes of Tod Williams and Billie Tsien’s two heartfelt contributions to New York life—their new ice rink in Prospect Park and their American Folk Art building.
Spike Jonze’s film Her is a story about machines and humans and human-like machines. Skin is important. The unnatural appearance of Catherine, the soon-to-be ex-wife of the hero, makes her seem something other than a flesh-bound fellow human with Theodore.
What has made “Bridgegate” simultaneously risible, demoralizing, and destructive is that it’s so quotidian, so simple. Being stuck in traffic is a familiar experience, a lot easier to imagine and to understand than the details of Obamacare or of the technical glitches that nearly sabotaged the inception of the new health-insurance laws.
The only conceivable rationale for the removal of Tod Williams and Billie Tsien’s Folk Art building would have been to replace it with something better. Diller Scofidio + Renfro’s sad little sellout does not come close. They have violated the golden rule of opportunism: if you forfeit your soul, at least get a good price for it.
Why do we have this uncritical reverence for the published writer? Why does the simple fact of publication suddenly make a person, hitherto almost derided, now a proper object of our admiration, a repository of special and important knowledge about the human condition? And more interestingly, what effect does this shift from derision to reverence have on the author and his work, and on literary fiction in general?