“For her part, Alice was starting to consider really rather seriously whether a former choirgirl from Massachusetts might be capable of conjuring the consciousness of a Muslim man.” Having just ordered hotdogs from a halal cart on the Upper West Side, the twenty-something publishing assistant . . .
Don’t Call Us Dead–the second full-length collection by the twenty-nine-year-old American poet Danez Smith–could stop you short, several times over, with its title alone. Don’t call usdead: that imperative is at once a reclamation (don’t you call us dead; that’s for us to say), a rebuke (don’t just call us dead, do something), and a revision . . .
Early on in Brett Haley’s Hearts Beat Loud, Frank Fisher (Nick Offerman), a single dad whose record store in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn is on its last legs, tries to inveigle his teenage daughter Sam into their weekly jam session.
In the Acknowledgments section at the end of Proust’s Duchess: How Three Celebrated Women Captured the Imagination of Fin-de-Siècle Paris, Caroline Weber expresses the modest hope that her book will inspire readers “to take another crack at Swann’s Way,” . . .
The first line of dialogue in Rachel Kushner’s The Mars Room is a plea for silence. A pregnant fifteen-year-old convict, “her belly so large they had to get an extra length of chain to shackle her hands to her sides,” can’t stop weeping during a long trip on a prison transport bus.
In 2004, when the legendary Costa Rican singer Chavela Vargas offered a concert of her musical adaptations of Federico García Lorca’s poems at the Huerta de San Vicente, his birth home in the outskirts of Granada, the music carried his words deep into the city . . .
By one of those fortunate coincidences, 2017 was both the 175th anniversary of the founding of the New York Philharmonic and the 100th anniversary of its first recording. To commemorate these occasions, Sony/BMG has created a 65-CD box set called New York Philharmonic: 175th Anniversary Edition . . .
That the desire for total control can conceal a desire for total powerlessness will remain a mystery only to those who have forgotten the meaning of “all or nothing.” The first desire is one that auteurist writer-director P. T. Anderson might be presumed to know . . .