August 9, 2013 On the Shelf Wretched Writing, and Other News By Sadie Stein “I draw a hot sorrow bath in my despair room.” This quote, by Keanu Reeves, is part of an anthology called Wretched Writing. Herewith, the Kill Your Darlings trailer, featuring Daniel Radcliffe as Allen Ginsberg. Meet idiosyncratic Houston-area used bookstore Good Books in the Woods. A beautiful missed connection electrifies the Internet; the author is revealed.
August 8, 2013 Arts & Culture The Joke About Chickens By Wyatt Williams At dinner a couple of years ago, I told the restaurant critic that I should write a story about chickens. That’s exactly what I said: “I think I should write a story about chickens.” We were dining on roasted bone marrow and ribeyes and rye Manhattans at a steakhouse that neither of us could afford. The newspaper was footing the bill. This was a joke. At least it should have been, because prior to stating my intentions to write a story about chickens, I had been trying and failing to write a story about chickens for four years without realizing it. I should have laughed and laughed and laughed because miserable failure is funny, especially when you’re unaware that you’re repeating the same mistakes. The problem with jokes about chickens is that they aren’t funny. Read More
August 8, 2013 Quote Unquote Happy Birthday, Sara Teasdale By Sadie Stein With the man I love who loves me not I walked in the street-lamps’ flare — But oh, the girls who ask for love In the lights of Union Square. —Sara Teasdale, “Union Square”
August 8, 2013 Books It Can Be Embarrassing to Love Dorothea By Pamela Erens George Eliot’s Middlemarch has been my favorite novel ever since one summer nearly thirty years ago, when I read it on the recommendation of a Victorian literature–obsessed college friend. I’ve read it twice since then, which might not seem like a lot for a favorite book, but it is nine hundred pages long, and its richness holds me for many years at a time. I love Middlemarch, published in 1872, for many reasons. I love Eliot’s gently intrusive narrator, her aphoristic habit of mind, her asides on medical research and philanthropy and manners. She can be extremely funny at times, a fact often overlooked by impatient readers. But Eliot’s wonderful narrator appears in her other great books as well—Daniel Deronda and Mill on the Floss and Silas Marner—so why is Middlemarch my best beloved? Perhaps it has to do with the fact that this particular novel, more even than Eliot’s others, is all about people trying to be good—out of religious belief or a desire to improve the lot of the common man or the love of a woman or in expiation of past badness. The attempt is portrayed as difficult, almost killing at times, and many of the characters fail at it spectacularly. The novel is set against the backdrop of political do-gooding: the great British reforms of the late 1820s and early 1830s, which greatly expanded the number of Englishmen (not women, of course) who could vote. It was a time when the concept of the good itself was beginning to have a more democratic and less aristocratic connotation. At the center of the many story lines in Middlemarch (marriages, deaths, legacies, falls from grace) is Dorothea Brooke, a nineteen-year-old orphan with a decent inheritance who has dreams of doing some great work in the world. At first she wants to improve the cottages of the tenant farmers who work on her uncle’s estate. Her plans are not met with much enthusiasm; those around her are the sort who think things are fine just the way they are. Courted by a local landowner who is considered a very good catch, she instead decides to marry a much older scholar whom she imagines to be some sort of genius. She will be his helpmeet; she’ll learn Greek and Latin so that she can help him guide his magnum opus into the world. Unfortunately her new husband, Casaubon, turns out to be a dry and humorless pedant who over time crushes Dorothea’s every impulse toward joy and intimacy. She, knowing she is bound to him legally, and feeling bound to him morally, fights against her resentment and loneliness, and although she no longer believes in his talent or his project, gives over her days to providing the lowly secretarial aid he demands. Read More
August 8, 2013 On the Shelf To Be or Not To Be? And Other News By Sadie Stein “I don’t want to kill you”: a summer camp based on The Hunger Games. To Be Or Not To Be: That Is the Adventure is, yes, a choose-your-own-adventure take on Hamlet. George Saunders’s much-lauded Syracuse graduation speech is being turned into a book. “What this does is that it immediately puts my writing into the category as a hobby. As in, are you still taking piano lessons, doing macrame, have a parrot? I don’t have a huge ego about my work, but let’s face it, for me it is a job. Yes, for heaven’s sake, I am still writing.” Danielle Steel sounds off.
August 7, 2013 The Culture Diaries A Week in Culture: Sophie Pinkham, Moscow and Kiev By Sophie Pinkham Slavicist Sophie Pinkham documented her week in NYC-based Russian culture for the Daily in April. When she returned to Russia, we asked her to diary her cultural experiences there, as well. DAY ONE In Moscow, I attend the opening of Lily Idov’s new exhibit, “Relics.” Idov took a series of photos at the Russian museums that tourists rarely visit: the Museum of Culinary Arts, the Museum of Darwinism, the Museum of Moscow Railways, the Museum of Cosmonautics. The photos are surreal, and often funny. A dummy astronaut gazes heavenward, starry-eyed; a dummy chef poses in front of a lacquered swordfish, looking perplexed. Idov’s photos remind us that the attendants are often the most interesting artifacts in these empty museums. A dummy youth in a train plays a guitar, one chord for eternity, as his live guard stands nearby, sphinx-like. A young woman gazes skeptically at a wax man wreathed in bagels. One elderly attendant looks as taxidermied as the crocodile he’s been assigned to watch. In fact, with his long white beard and weary expression, he looks rather like a taxidermied Tolstoy. DAY TWO With two friends from New York, I take a day trip to Yasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy’s estate. The signs are in Russian, English, and Korean, and our fellow tourists wear large bundles of leaves on their heads. The effect is festive, but also warlike. And what does it have to do, exactly, with Lev Nikolaevich? Tourism is its own civilization, with customs that can be understood only through intensive ethnographic research. “Who are you, and where do you come from?” asks a surly attendant. We return to the entrance, pay for a mandatory tour, and put plastic baggies over our shoes, as if prepping for surgery. Our guide is an older woman with tinted glasses, bright red lipstick, and what is, one senses, a certain weariness with Lev Nikolaevich. There is a marked contrast between her fast, flat delivery and Tolstoy’s tortured moral ideas. Lev Nikolaevich had sharp eyes that saw into a person’s soul the question that tortured him throughout his life was what is the meaning of human life what is truly in the human soul surely it contains great goodness We examine the leather sofa where Lev Nikolaevich and his children were born. There was once a leather pillow, but it was lost in the war. Read More