Philly’s cold winter has turned long and sour, and despite the fact that the calendar tells me it’s spring, the weather tells me I’ve ended up in an ice-cold hell dimension. In protest I recently decided that the South I miss so much can be regained, if only in my head. It involves a lot [...]
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"Here is something else I know: the power of literature to 'renew a sense of purpose in our lives' gets killed in literature classrooms — unintentionally, no doubt, but killed nonetheless."
- #"Technically, they are voted, but actually they are not decided by the use of whatever artistic and critical wisdom Hollywood may happen to possess. They are ballyhooed, pushed, yelled, screamed, and in every way propagandized into the consciousness of the voters so incessantly, in the weeks before the final balloting, that everything except the golden aura of the box office is forgotten." --Raymond Chandler, 1948
- #"But Welty is not a regional writer—her purview is much smaller than that. Her writing is bound up in the romance of everyday objects, in the vagaries of memory and how they become tied to a place, a room, a piece of furniture, or a trinket. Proust had his madeleine, but Welty had pralines."
- #"I would write these epic, too long story drafts. And I kept thinking one would, on its own accord, take root and flourish in my brain. And I guess this thing sort of did. It wasn’t a straightforward flourishing. It was swamp sprawl." Karen Russell on the early days of Swamplandia!
- #Even The New Yorker itself is forced to admit that Jonathan Franzen's essay on Edith Wharton treads very little new ground.
- #"If you play a lot of Charles Ives, you have to put up with the raised eyebrows of other musicians, who refer to him as 'a crazy insurance salesman.' This is frustrating. He was actually a spectacular insurance salesman who co-founded an agency and made a fortune." Jeremy Denk is witty and charming as always in The New Yorker [subscription required].
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