Shelf Life Shelf Life
Gary Wills's Bomb Power: The Modern Presidency and the National Security State; Elizabeth Arnold's Effacement.
Apr 16, 2010 / Books & the Arts / John Palattella
Gramaphoons Gramaphoons
A rock bottom, a bottom line, a body in extremis all make the poems of Graham Foust quaver and reel.
Apr 16, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Ange Mlinko
The Crack-Up The Crack-Up
The Latin American utopia has disappeared, says novelist and crackero Jorge Volpi, and he displays little nostalgia for it.
Apr 16, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Ben Ehrenreich
Extravagant Disorder Extravagant Disorder
Miroslav Tichy's haphazard, eccentric photographs are disciplined, even rigorous--and indifferent to the claims of their female subjects.
Apr 14, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Jana Prikryl
Get Out Get Out
Can you feel your confidence match the billowing crowd? You even feel cocky, believing you've earned the admiration of a few. It is, in fact, what it appears to be: a voice fastened to paper very carefully, a cry cut from its mouth. But then, you think, who is that you're talking to? There's no one here, just paper and ink and you. What is this pathetic game? Get out. Go find a friend.
Apr 14, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Craig Morgan Teicher
A Reign Not of This World A Reign Not of This World
Juan Carlos Onetti immerses himself in reality just long enough to fashion an escape. This is his peculiar gift.
Apr 14, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Jonathan Blitzer
Scattered Threads Scattered Threads
This year's Whitney Biennial fails to address the question of which art pertains to our time rather than any other.
Apr 8, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Barry Schwabsky
Anderson’s Amphibologies: On Perry Anderson Anderson’s Amphibologies: On Perry Anderson
Perry Anderson deftly punctures the EU's self-serving myths, but his own pieties make him a better prosecutor than judge.
Apr 8, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Mark Mazower
A Caller of the Dove A Caller of the Dove
In his poems, Mahmoud Darwish greeted even his own name warily, knowing it was something else he'd be forced to leave behind.
Apr 8, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Jordan Davis
Morning on the Island Morning on the Island
The lights across the water are the waking city. The water shimmers with imaginary fish. Not far from here lie the bones of conifers washed from the sea and piled by wind. Some mornings I walk upon them, bone to bone, as far as the lighthouse. A strange beetle has eaten most of the trees. It may have come here on the ships playing music in the harbor, or it was always here, a winged jewel, but in the past was kept still by the cold of a winter that no longer comes. There is an owl living in the firs behind us but he is white, meant to be mistaken for snow burdening a bough. They say he is the only owl remaining. I hear him at night listening for the last of the mice and asking who of no other owl.
Apr 5, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Carolyn Forché