Dave Eggers's memoir, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, has been a bit too loudly hyped as an ironic tearjerker, and a media juggernaut has branded its author a tragic hero.
It's a sign of age: Mention 1985, and I will sometimes think you're talking about last year.
The headline in the Sunday Times of London was spectacular: Lennon Funded Terrorists and Trotskyists. It was also erroneous.
Perhaps no contemporary writer has more singlemindedly mined a single vein of literary ore than E.L. Doctorow has New York City, especially the New York of the past.
The first thing Jim Jarmusch asks you to do in Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai is to look up and down.
Tired of all the stuff about the Cuban kid who is rapidly being turned into the most pampered brat in the world? The press can be blamed, of course.
Blessed with a great subject, afflicted with it too, J.M. Coetzee has remade its meanings in the light of metaphor often no further from us than our own bodies.
For someone who misspent his youth in film societies and revival houses, where mushrooms develop more readily than social skills, a job as a movie reviewer wonderfully eases the burden of small t
Many years ago, when I was about the age that V.S. Naipaul was when he departed Trinidad for England, I would borrow books by him from the library of an erstwhile colonial club in Kuala Lumpur.
Natural Capitalism is so informative and provocative--and so unfashionably optimistic about the future of the planet--that I wonder why everyone in public life is not reading it and arguin