March 22, 2013 On the Shelf Chinua Achebe Dies, and Other News By Sadie Stein Chinua Achebe has died at eighty-two. The Guardian rereleases a stirring interview with the Nigerian literary giant. (Yes, the words “things have fallen apart” have been, appropriately, invoked.) An Oxford University librarian has been fired after students staged a textbook Harlem shake on her unwitting watch. It’s been a while since we gawked at literary tattoos. If you feel this lack keenly, this one’s for you.
March 21, 2013 The Revel Countdown to the Revel By The Paris Review Here at 62 White Street, preparations for our Spring Revel are in full swing! Our office is brimming with loot for our guests: limited-edition Paris Review tote bags; archival copies of the magazine; our recent anthology of short stories, Object Lessons; loads of books by Paula Fox, the Revel’s honoree and the recipient of this year’s Hadada Award; and surprises yet to be revealed. Variously described as “the best party in town” and “prom for New York intellectuals,” the Spring Revel is legendary for a reason. Tuesday, April 9, join Paris Review readers, supporters, and writers at Cipriani 42nd Street for an always unforgettable evening of cocktails, dinner, and revelry. Writer hosts include Hilton Als, Michael Cunningham, James Fenton, Zoë Heller, Lewis Lapham, Katie Roiphe, Leanne Shapton, Wallace Shawn, Zadie Smith, Gay Talese, and many more. Get your tickets here!
March 21, 2013 First Person Half-Life By Patrick Monahan “Sorry, wasn’t there a cabaret here?” a British woman asked the waiter. He was laying a napkin on the table and put a glass of white wine on top of it. For a second, I thought the woman was talking to me. “Oh yes,” the waiter said, “this part of the bar used to be the Oak Room. They only put that wall up a couple of months ago.” He tapped a panel between her table and mine, then put an identical glass of wine in front of me. The Algonquin Hotel’s Blue Bar lived up to its name: neon tubes snaked clear around the narrow room, reflecting their blue glare on its oak panels and plastic banquettes. Hirschfeld prints covered the walls and Sinatra crooned from a speaker in the ceiling. I wanted to answer the woman, but found myself far away from her. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a baritone voice announced, “The Oak Room is proud to present … Steve Ross!” The crowd applauded. Candles flickered inside their glass holders. A curtain at one end of the room parted, and Steve appeared in Noël Coward’s emerald smoking jacket. He wove through the tables, making his way to the grand piano. The crowd hushed, and he began to play Porter, Gershwin, and the saloon songs he knew I liked. “If it isn’t the jeunesse dorée!” he beamed at me after the show, shaking hands with people as they filed out of the Oak Room. “Did you know,” he told me when most of them were gone, “that the first Algonquin Round Table was right over over there?” He pointed to a corner of the Oak Room, just on the other side of the door from where we were standing. Waiters were clearing the tables; the baritone in the light booth was pulling on his coat. Alexander Woolcott might as well have been lingering over lunch. Read More
March 21, 2013 Quote Unquote Happy March 21 By Sadie Stein “You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.” —Pablo Neruda
March 21, 2013 On the Shelf Our Books Lack Feelings, and Other News By Sadie Stein Over at Ploughshares, an interview with book artist Melissa Jay Craig. Putting his money where his mouth is, so to speak, writer Tom Bissell has written a video game, Gears of War: Judgment, the fourth in a military sci-fi series. This trend has endless possibilities. (Cue Joyce Carol Oates for Xbox 360.) An algorithm finds that the emotional content of books is on the decline. (Although there’s probably more sex.) Conversely! “Morn shows that he was not immune to the forces that had so dramatically acted upon his father, though his own political convictions would thrive within the rococo folds of his language.” Two new books allow us to see a new, less detached side of Nabokov. Horror writer James Herbert has died, at sixty-nine.
March 20, 2013 Arts & Culture Diego, Frida, and Me By Molly Crabapple Molly’s Factory When a woman artist looks for her forebears, she sees a void. There are, needless to say, great female artists. There’s Tamara de Lempicka, queen of art deco. There’s Artemisia Gentileschi, forever in paintings, cutting off her rapist’s head. There’s love-ravished Camille Claudel, making the hands of her lover Rodin’s sculptures before being institutionalized for forty years. There are Mary Cassatt’s paintings of children. But it can’t be denied: the canon of Western woman’s art is nothing compared to the canon of Western woman’s writing. Noted Audre Lorde, “Of all the art forms, poetry is the most economical. It is the one which is the most secret, which requires the least physical labor, the least material, and the one which can be done between shifts, in the hospital pantry, on the subway, and on scraps of surplus paper.” While a writer may require only a room of one’s own, an artist needs years of training, muses, a studio, canvas, paints, patrons, and, fundamentally, a world that lets her be grubby and feral and alone. Growing up, the women in art history who inspired me were primarily models: Victorine Muerent. La Goulue. Far from pampered, indolent odalisques, these are sexy, tough, working-class women, often with backgrounds in the sex trade. Notable contrasts to the genteel girls who studied flower painting along with piano and embroidery, my archetypes were flamboyant, glamorous self-creations, unabashedly employing themselves as their own raw materials in a world that would give them nothing else. I too worked as an artist’s model. For an artist, the job is a paradox: you’re clay for someone else’s creation while longing to make your own. Read More