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 .  .  .

In my early teens, my family attended a Hasidic synagogue in Milwaukee, Wisconsin; my father had chosen this synagogue, I think, because it was unabashedly, unequivocally, and anciently Jewish.

Is there life after death? More important, does it resemble a celestial choir with harps handed round, or is it more like Grand Central Station at rush hour? Or maybe more than one sort of afterlife exists.

A survey of ten recent, celebrated poetry books suggests that today’s poets have, in our unprecedented times, come upon an unprecedented discovery: each of us, it turns out, has a body. Actually, each of us has the body.

Few singers so supremely talented have been so consistently maligned by critics as the Libertines’ co-frontman, sometime Babyshamble, and solo artist, Peter Doherty.

As the Washington Post reporter Ben Bagdikian in Steven Spielberg’s The Post, Bob Odenkirk wears dress shirts that are not quite white and not quite beige, not quite green and not quite yellow.