The reviewer's galley of Natasha, David Bezmozgis's short-story collection about a Russian émigré family in Toronto, begins with words not from the writer but the publisher.
In the spring of 1960, the year of his death, the novelist Richard Wright wrote from Paris to his friend and Dutch translator Margrit de Sablonière:
Stalin has had a rough time at the hands of Russian novelists in recent years.
It's the first three chapters of Yuri Olesha's Envy that really bite, that really get across the impotent sting of the emotion.
Conventional wisdom suggests Israelis and Palestinians are bitter enemies: two sides mired in a century-long conflict marked by violence, hatred and an unbounded reservoir of brutality, each side
"Paris is a very old story," Henry James wrote in 1878--so old, in fact, that it's hard to write about it without falling into clichés about chestnut trees, couture, freedom and
I've long considered E.L. Doctorow the most American of contemporary writers--in a particularly classic sense.
"If Bush gets re-elected, I'm moving to Canada!" Most of us who've vowed this, at one time or another, won't actually make good on our word.
Philosophers get attention only when they appear to be doing something sinister--corrupting the youth, undermining the foundations of civilization, sneering at all we hold dear.
There's nothing like political disaster to turn soft porn into art. What would Hiroshima, Mon Amour be without Hiroshima?