Posts Tagged ‘magazines’
April 19, 2013 | by The Paris Review
Yesterday I was handed the first issue of a Dutch magazine that bills itself as “a kind of National Geographic of design.” Oddly, the design of Works That Work (in print) leaves much to be desired: it’s the size and shape of a puffy playbill. But there is an online edition, and the features range from an interview with the translator Linda Asher to an article on battlefield cooking to an investigation of that crowd-management fad, the fly in the urinal. (Yes, it’s published in English.) —Lorin Stein
Every now and then, I go back to my copy of Musicality, a collaboration between Barbara Guest and June Felter, and this week was one of those times (maybe it’s the advent—finally!—of spring that drew me to the book). Published in 1988 by Kelsey St. Press, it combines a single poem by Guest interspersed among pages of Felter’s pencil drawings of rural landscapes—scribbled trees, grasses, and hillocks; knotted loops for clouds; and the simplest geometry to describe farmhouses. Guest’s lines likewise employ the smallest marks, the slightest movements to render nature’s, well, musicality: “Hanging apples half notes / in the rhythmic ceiling red flagged / rag clefs / notational margins / the unfinished / cloudburst / a barrel cloud fallen from the cyclone truck / they hid under a table the cloud / with menacing disc / Leafs ripple in the dry cyclonic.” It doesn’t hurt that the book’s cover stock has a very pleasing, toothy texture (Fabriano Artistico, for you paper fiends out there), so it’s doubly nice to pick up. —Nicole Rudick Read More »
July 18, 2012 | by Noah Wunsch
September 2, 2010 | by Radhika Jones
This is the second installment of Jones' culture diary. Click here to read part 1.
Morning I put in some book requests, per last night's TLS: Tom McCarthy's new book C, which is out September 7, and his first novel, Remainder, which I meant to read after the great piece Zadie Smith wrote in the New York Review of Books a couple of years ago, "Two Paths for the Novel," about McCarthy and Joseph O'Neill. Meetings and a quick edit eat up much of the morning.
Lunch with a favorite literary agent—one of those agents who turns out to represent all the writers you're hearing great things about. We fill each other in on what we've been reading. I make a mental note to pack Rosecrans Baldwin's You Lost Me There in the vacation bag.
Afternoon Gilbert sends me a 5 P.M. pick-me-up, in the form of the YouTube video for Cee Lo's hilarious single "F--k You." I love the typography! Thanks, Gilbert. I start working on my book review, which is to say, I write a sentence that may or may not be the lede.
Trailer break! The Social Network. I am bizarrely excited to see this movie1, which stars Jesse Eisenberg and his hoodie. And now onward to the trailer for the fake Twitter movie, which looks even more awesome.
In the NYT, I read a piece on the Shakespeare Quarterly opening up its traditional peer review system to open review online. As a former (recovering?) academic, I like this idea.
Remainder arrives. I check out the Literary Saloon, which leads me to New York's twenty most anticipated books of the season, and to a piece about Barnes and Noble, also in New York, by Andrew Rice. Paris Review alert! One of NY Mag's most anticipated fiction books is Danielle Evans' Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self. We published Danielle's first short story, "Virgins" (issue 182), which went on to be selected for Best American Short Stories. And Andrew Rice had a great piece of nonfiction, "The Book of Wilson," from his travels in Uganda, in issue 177.
I also read "Dear Prudence" on Slate. This is the only advice column I ever read. I'm not exactly sure why—I'm not sure why I read it, and I'm not sure why it's the only one2 I read. And I don't have time to puzzle it out, so it'll be one of the many things in life I just chalk up to mystery appeal.
Evening Bhangra class. A few years ago (actually, about six years ago, yikes), my friend Sailaja and I started taking bhangra classes. We had no dance background, and I have the flexibility of a No. 2 pencil. But our teacher, Ambika3, is brilliant, and after a year or so we had become, as Sailaja put it, not great bhangra dancers but passable bhangra students. Which we thought was pretty impressive!
- I wonder if Harvard will start showing it during first-year orientation instead of Love Story.
- Although my all-time favorite Slate column is from the nineties—the Shopping Avenger. He avenged consumer wrongs, until he got caught in a U-Haul spiral from which he never emerged, which anyone who has ever rented from U-Haul can understand. O Shopping Avenger. I miss you, and I try to make you proud.
- Last year Ambika took off for Nigeria to make films, but I knew that if I waited patiently and went on an exercise strike, she'd come back. And she has. And tonight is our first class.
- Have been on a Gawande rereading binge since his wonderful end-of-life care piece in The New Yorker a few weeks back.
July 16, 2010 | by The Paris Review
What we've been reading this week.
July 15, 2010 | by Caitlin Roper
This is the second installment of Roper's culture diary. Click here to read part 1.
11:30 A.M. John Waters interview. He’s in Provincetown for the summer, so we have to talk on the phone. I’m disappointed not to meet him in person, but still excited to talk. Waters is a charmer. I’m instantly enthralled and never want to hang up1.
1:00 P.M. My friend Max sent me some images of paintings by Walton Ford2, whom we both admire. I think Ford is my favorite contemporary painter. He paints gigantic, detailed watercolors. There’re sort of Audobon, naturalist illustration-inspired, with a dark, anti-colonial, anti-industrialist twist. I spend about fifteen minutes looking at all the Ford paintings I can find online. This is an example of a kind of culture that is not best delivered via computer screen. I long to see some Ford paintings at full size.
5:00 P.M. Max sent me this video, probably captured by a security camera, of a guy strolling down the street in a track suit and a pair of sunglasses. He does a double-take, and nearly gets hit by a car careening down the sidewalk. He leaps to safety, missing death by inches. I find it so alarming I watch it over and over again. The way the guy looks up, jukes to one side, then leaps expertly out of the way—I cannot believe it.
6:45 P.M. The Kids Are All Right at the Loews Village 7. I liked Lisa Cholodenko’s High Art. I saw it in college. I know little about this one, which is my ideal4 movie-going scenario. As soon as the movie starts, I’m engaged5. This is the best movie I have seen in a theater since Joon-ho Bong’s Mother. Also, Mark Ruffalo is hot.
9:15 P.M. Kickstarter and Rooftop Films teamed up for a film festival. The roof in Park Slope is vast. We slink in during a film and settle in folding chairs. The film shorts are projected on a screen hung on a brick wall. It’s a warm night, but there is a gentle, steady breeze. I watch two shorts and find my eyes drifting back to the horizon, where a herd of clouds makes its way across the plains of the blue-black sky. Read More »
- We talk for about twenty minutes and the transcript of our conversation is twenty-four pages long. Waters: “I am astounded by the behavior of people that think they’re completely normal, and can act so insane and not realize it.”
- I first saw Ford’s work in person at the Brooklyn Museum in 2006. I was there to see Ron Mueck’s impressive, wacky hyperrealist sculptures, but it was the last day of the Annie Leibovitz show, and the place was mobbed. I snuck away from the masses and found myself in an empty room, each wall had just one vast Ford painting. I spent about an hour in there staring at the detail in a painting of a tiger.
- He didn’t show me this piece, but I came across it myself (I was looking for Philip Roth’s 1958 review of The Bridge On the River Kwai). I’m impressed, as usual, with David’s intellect. I’m lucky to know and work with someone I genuinely admire. When I tell him I liked it, he says, “I should've cut the second paragraph."
- I never read reviews before I see a movie if I can help it.
- It’s set in California, and the characters are appealing and real in a way I have rarely seen on film. Most important: the writing is excellent. Lisa Cholodenko, wow.
June 21, 2010 | by Lorin Stein
This morning we received a copy of The Paris Magazine, which bills itself as “The Poor Man's Paris Review” and has appeared exactly four times since its founding in 1967. This isn't very often for a quarterly magazine. Like a blazing comet with an extremely irregular orbit, issue four of The Paris Magazine is not to be missed. I commend to your attention—just for example—Todd McEwen on growing up Thoreauvian: “It was Thoreau's slow, almost maddeningly slow, description of leaves, of trees, that drew me in. Right away I recognized in Thoreau a fellow connoisseur of depression ... ” (This called to mind a favorite paragraph from Sam Munson's recent novel The November Criminals1.)
Instead of answering several important e-mails, I also read Rivka Galchen's essay on the DSM, Ferlinghetti's game attempt to translate “Le Pont Mirabeau,” and a rangy essay by Michel Houellebecq on contemporary architecture, including these memorable last lines:
A society which has attained an overheated level doesn't necessarily melt, but it is unable to produce meaning, since all its energy is taken up with the description of its random variations. Every individual is however capable of producing a sort of cold revolution within himself by stepping outside the infomercial flow. It's very easy to do. It has in fact never been simpler than today to adopt an aesthetic position in relation to the world: all you have to do is take a step to the side. And this step in the final instance is itself useless. It is enough to pause; to switch off the radio, unplug the television; not to buy anything else, not to want to buy anything else. It is enough to no longer take part, to no longer know; to temporarily suspend all mental activity. It is enough, literally, to be still for a few seconds.
Which is exactly what I was! Congratulations to the new editor of The Paris Magazine, Fatema Ahmed, and to its publisher, the much-loved Shakespeare and Company. May they too find some momentary stillness—and yet manage to produce their next issue before 2019.
- In which the narrator (a high school pot dealer and budding Latinist) explains why the Aeneid is his favorite book:
Why the Aeneid? It's exciting but also difficult to understand. The stories in it are kind of incomprehensible. Venus raping Anchises. Aeneas returning from the underworld through the Gate of Ivory, the gate through which Virgil says false dreams arrive in the world. And the way it ends: in a single instant, just like a human life. It all appears at first to be nonsensical, but that's because it belongs to a world that no longer exists. In the centuries between us and Virgil, we kind of lost interest in things that are hard to understand. I'm generalizing, yeah, but am I wrong? It's why, maybe, so much biography gets written now, even of people you've never heard of. Which should be the sole test to see if someone deserves a biography: whether a random guy on the street has heard of him. I don't know why this happened. Everyone, though, seems sort of bricked into his own life. At least, everyone I know, including me. Not in “quiet desperation”—the phrase comes from another terrible writer my teachers forced me to read, Henry David Thoreau—but just by the fact of living in the small, boring modern world. And this explains why all my teachers have been so terrible. I mean because they, like Thoreau, see their own selves not as prisons but as subjects of thunderous interest. I don't mean to sound harsh, but holy fuck! No one who admires Thoreau should be permitted anywhere near a school.