‘Insoumission’ ‘Insoumission’
The categorical imperative “Do Not Draw the Prophet” clashes with the thousand nuances of art.
Mar 4, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Stéphane Delorme
Impossible Standards Impossible Standards
The poems and a new biography of James Laughlin tells of his public success as a publisher and his private disappointments.
Mar 4, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Adam Plunkett
Jean-Luc Godard and the End of Cinema Jean-Luc Godard and the End of Cinema
The French director is still grappling with the collapsing culture of cinema while imagining its future incarnation.
Feb 25, 2015 / Books & the Arts / J. Hoberman
A Volcano of Documents A Volcano of Documents
How the discovery of police archives has altered the memory of political atrocities in Guatemala.
Feb 25, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Peter Canby
Dhaka Stories Dhaka Stories
K. Anis Ahmed’s stringent tales of life in the sprawling capital of Bangladesh.
Feb 25, 2015 / Books & the Arts / André Naffis-Sahely
Shelf Life Shelf Life
Khirbet Khizeh is a study in ambiguity of the 1948 Arab-Israeli War.
Feb 25, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Eyal Press
Always Already Alienated Always Already Alienated
Ben Lerner and the novel of detachment.
Feb 11, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Jon Baskin
American Shooter American Shooter
Clint Eastwood’s shoot ’em up is remorseless, racist fantasy.
Feb 11, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Stuart Klawans
Forget Where I Heard It Forget Where I Heard It
With pigeon force the air men come clattering. It would be sad if it wasn’t so funny, one swore. Stay out of the nettles. Do not live above the shop. His men may find you there. Otherwise, as coma says, my beans, my peas, my coma get read into the riot act. That comes later. After three decades of futility, you have to ask: Who was this composer? Was he known for anything else? Is the mere survival of the notes justified, or do we all survive this way, more or less?
Feb 11, 2015 / Books & the Arts / John Ashbery
Snow Snow
How did we come to this cold place? It is not listed on the maps. The cold has disarranged your face. These memories are not ours, perhaps. But still we must pretend to know the reason for things as they are. We do not recognize the snow. Perhaps that makes us what we are.
Feb 11, 2015 / Books & the Arts / William Logan