Marjorie Welish’s poetry, like Thelonious Monk’s music, is a montage of moving parts in which you’d be wise to expect the unexpected.
It’s kind of wonderful when pure chance leads you to a book that unexpectedly illuminates another one you’ve just read.
The 1950s through the mid-1970s were the great era of the unreadable novel. Kateb Yacine’s Nedjma was one of the first and most remarkable of these.
Darby English’s new book 1971 decries black nationalist demands for a unified artistic community in favor of abstraction, individualism, and personal autonomy.
Pierre Reverdy’s novel The Thief of Talant is not a novel at all, but a long poem or sequence with elusive narrative underpinnings.
Dodie Bellamy’s Cunt Norton isn’t exactly pornography, but it’s a step in the right direction.
Although the poetry in Geoffrey Nutter’s Cities at Dawn is almost always calmly descriptive, whatever it describes is somehow something else and not itself.
It’s no wonder that few things inspire as much persistent paranoia as banking. But a little paranoia might not be such a bad thing.
Before starting to make films, Robert Bresson had been a painter. Or rather, he remained one, since according to him, “It’s not possible to have been a painter and to no longer be one.”
Caetano Veloso is an aesthete, not a man of politics, but the times and his conscience lent a political valence to his aesthetic choices.
It wasn’t exactly on purpose that, in the wake of the catastrophe that was Election Day, 2016, I started reading a book about the aftermath of the attacks of September 11, 2001.
Is Liam Gillick a writer?