As Giorgio Bassani (1916–2000) began writing in the late 1940s, Europe was reeling from World War II. Among those most confused and stricken by it were writers and artists, for whom the Nazis’ defeat and their gradually uncovered atrocities spelled an intellectual crisis.
Don Paterson’s new prose work is learned, intensely reflective, shot through with illuminating perceptions–and sometimes baffling and sometimes maddening. To be all of these, as well as crotchety and cavalier, it has to be at least substantial . . .
The world of opera, both in its plots and in its singers’ personal histories, is filled with tales of women oppressed and exploited by men. “Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore” (Thus to art, thus to love), as Tosca despairingly sings in Puccini’s great aria.
According to a statement cited by The New York Times, Donna de Salvo, chief curator of the Whitney Museum of American Art, has made explicit her aim in organizing the new retrospective of the work of the artist Andy Warhol on view until 31 March 2019: “To humanize Warhol and get people to actually look at what he made is not as easy as it might sound.”
“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.