And maybe that brings us to the myth of chronology: linear time equals progression. No. There is no linear progression and we’re reproducing subjection again and again.
Vol 1
To draw the lines of contagion linking each term to the others in their reticulation+circulation, uncartesian grid, would offer something like the topography of Summer. A summer map.
And maybe that brings us to the myth of chronology: linear time equals progression. No. There is no linear progression and we’re reproducing subjection again and again.
There no longer appears an obvious trade-off between “progress” and its human price; no countervailing benefits accruing to those who might otherwise have to bear the “slow violence” of modern industry.
Using serious modes and channels to critique writers like Franzen only legitimizes them as serious people to be debated. What better consolation than to shitpost?
“In being death, you hope that you won’t become death. In being a door-to-door makeup salesperson,” Vick said, “the same.”
Someone sneezed.
By exploring the dynamic between seeing and reading, and animating the spaces between text and photographs, these works super-boost the possibilities of feminist narrative.
Attention Library: the phrase verges on redundancy. But unlike in most libraries, where the act of attention is a means to an end, in this Library attention is the main attraction: one visits the Milcom Room to attend, as it were, to attention itself. Is such an exercise possible?
I want to see Camp Dada as a fungal body, one in which we accept that the world will not be saved, and so strive for new ways of sustaining life in the present.
The Shining lives in my consciousness like no other work of art.
remind me to tell you about the pedestrian bridge arched over the tributary that flows into the cuyahoga river
If we know what we see we’ll know how to act. Or more like deep fake me once, shame on you, deep fake me twice who am I, where, why.
The impassioned disputations on taste and aesthetics at the now-maligned Salons were disputations on ethics, morals, and politics. As in our art world, taste was an advocacy vehicle for the Good, if hardly for the same Good.
You’re a poet who’s been at it for a while: you’ve published ten or fifteen books over thirty or forty years, and you’ve won prizes. You’ve had critics call you an Influence. But not lately.
The most hard-wearing and commonsensical of writerly truisms is the avoidance of cliché.
My senior year of college, I got skinny off raw food. Soaked...
But each night in my dream she eats my heart
They’re a potent reminder that we still live in the long, dark shadow of the twentieth century—the bargains made therein, the general Faustian demeanor accepted as a national character—and that a certain kind of serious, Modernist fiction still has a place and resonates.
The war that the WGA is currently fighting—against the gig-ification of their jobs and the abandonment of new workers in the field to low-wage contingency—looks a lot like the war higher ed already lost.
The earth was not at all made to someday host plants, animals, or us. Life, in its tenacity, has just scratched out a little foothold. None of this is for us. Really: None of this is for anything at all.
I couldn’t marry the Great Man and be the Great Man.
Contrary to no one’s expectations, Emmanuel Carrère has written another book about himself. If you’re just being introduced, this is his fourth or fifth.
“Next Year” can still be exciting to us because of how it occupies the material it’s made with, and what that kind of occupation might have to say about the way we read both poems and calendars.