- The history of English in ten minutes.
- (Courtesy of Reddit!)
- Bei Ling: “I was amazed that no independent voice, no exiled or dissident writer from China is being represented at the London Book Fair.”
- Dystopian dream books.
- Junkie: the It bag for spring!
- This is your brain on books.
- Remembering Joe Brainard.
- “The centrepiece of our brand new displays in Solo Gallery is Roald Dahl’s Writing Hut, complete with all its original contents and furnishings. Visitors can see the ‘little nest’ as Roald Dahl called it, exactly as he had it set up, with all the extraordinary and fascinating objects he kept at hand for contemplation and inspiration.”
- Cookbook ghostwriters.
- And the fallout.
- “The man was sitting on the porch with some people he had just met, talking about books and authors. The 34-year-old man was then approached by another party guest, who started speaking to him in a condescending manner. An argument ensued and the man was suddenly struck in the side of the head, suffering a cut to his left ear, Bush said. The man’s glasses went flying off of his head and fell to the ground, with one of the lenses popping out of the frames, Bush said.”
- Book nerds v. Kanye. NSFW.
I was thrilled when a copy of The Doll—Daphne du Maurier’s early short stories, some “lost”—arrived in the office. They’re not all amazing, but when she’s good, she’s great. There’s the same sense of cold dread that pervades Don’t Look Now and Rebecca, and the title story presages the latter’s themes of obsession. (Not to mention, the object of obsession is named … Rebecca.) —Sadie Stein
Olympia Le-Tan’s world! I dream of carrying my MetroCard and keys inside one of her handmade books, or minaudières, as they say in France. —Jessica Calderon
“I often feel that the scenes in Edward Hopper paintings are scenes from my own past” writes Mark Strand in Hopper, which pairs the artist’s paintings with Strand’s prose ruminations on them. It’s a little like meandering through a gallery with the poet. In it, “we feel the presence of what is hidden, of what surely exists but is not revealed … It weighs on us like solitude.” —Deirdre Foley-Mendelssohn
I’ve been reading and rereading the lovely long poem “The Blue Book” from Anna Moschovakis’s I Have Not Been Able to Get Through to Everyone. Its circuitous logic, in which one line feeds off the one before it, is mesmerizing. Each section describes the progression of an idea as a kind of mathematical equation, proving itself even as it calls itself into question. —Nicole Rudick