Cancellation, Culture, and Copyright
What separates the Dr. Seuss incident from more recent cancellations is that it has turned into a discussion of copyright terms
What separates the Dr. Seuss incident from more recent cancellations is that it has turned into a discussion of copyright terms
The Prisoner by Marcel Proust’s depiction of doomed and obsessive sexual jealousy is not nearly as bleak as I remembered. It’s tragic, but it’s a light tragedy.
Proust is showing us the world that was in terminal decline by the first world war and asking the important question: What did we lose?
Sodom and Gomorrah by Marcel Proust: In which the love that dare not speak its name finally speaks- at great length.
We’re halfway through Marcel Proust’s epic The Guermantes Way and Death makes an appearance or two to complicate matters.
The Guermantes Way by Marcel Proust: On worshipping and serving others in the social world of Volume 3 of “In Search of Lost Time”
I decided to look at the concept of fictional redemption arcs in Game of Thrones. In the GoT TV show, there are three main redemptive arcs.
As we finish Marcel Proust’s “In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower” our hero heads to the beach and meets an artist, a marquis, and a band of young girls who will alter the course of his life and imagination, whether or not he ever really knows them.
In “In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower” by Marcel Proust, our hero goes through the changes of adolescence, in which he sees things loved from afar close up, and watches their proportions and values shrink or enlarge greatly.
Quit ignoring The Scope Problem or we’ll end up with more Game of Thrones that start off amazing and end with a disappointed “meh”.
And now, Proust immerses us in his remembered social milieu like a sponge cake in tea, and rhapsodizes about the myriad joys and pains of everyday existence. His young narrator overflows with delight.
George RR Martin kills off his characters right. Those deaths mattered. The TV version of Game of Thrones? Not so much…
The Apple Tree is an eerie seasonal tale about a widower and a familiar old tree to end the year. Next year, let’s read Proust!
A Child’s Christmas in Wales is itself, and in being itself it speaks to variegated experiences beyond its author’s own knowledge.
I know every single one of you is wondering whether and in what ways I appreciate James Joyce’s work. So…In praise of (and in fear of) James Joyce’s oeuvre.
Like the recent HBO series, I consumed “Lovecraft Country” ravenously, like I was a dripping protoplasmic monster too terrible to behold.
This week I read two novels by Hari Kunzru, a modern magician of storytelling, though the tricks worked better in one of them for my tastes.
Stop normalizing pathological snobbery, such as “everyone who voted Trump is an inbred, lardlicking oaf ripped from Hillbilly Elegy”
This week, If Beale Street Could Talk and Riot Baby, two stories, 46 years apart, about young Black men imprisoned, a disturbingly perennial theme
Pessoa was that modernist type: a tiny man with a limited social life and an unfathomably rich and grandiose imaginary one.