“Information is increasing while direct contacts are in decline. Relations are becoming more numerous while their intensity and authenticity are diminishing,” wrote Henri Lefebvre in 1961, and by 1981 he understood that this would entail “a solitude all the more profound for being overwhelmed by messages.”
Reflected in sentences of throbbing beauty, the blind urge to self-destruction becomes a visionary quest
The writings of Karl Marx will always remain a source of insight and inspiration, but vast swaths of the Marxist literature that exerted such a fascination when I was younger now seem barren of interest.
Hannah Arendt, an untimely, unassimilable figure, looms ever larger in the life of thought.
“There are several Puerto / Ricans on the avenue today, which / makes it beautiful and warm,” wrote Frank O’Hara in “A Step Away from Them.” It was 1956, the day after Jackson Pollock’s funeral.
The presses roll fast when there are no presses to roll.
This is not so much a second novel as a mature reimagining of what a youthful first novel might have been.
In a recent long, too long, much too long article in the London Review of Books, Andrew O’Hagan quoted John Lanchester paraphrasing dear old Edmund Wilson to the effect that poets feel differences among themselves as tantamount to lying.
Richard Bellamy is one of the very few art dealers around whose name the word “legendary” floats like an aura. But how to convey what was so special about him is a nice problem for a biographer.
Some of Robert Glück’s essays came my way in the 1980s via such publications as Poetics Journal.
So many poets out there.
My all-too-brief visit to Delhi last year ignited in me a desire to learn about the history of India.