I am an artless serf of Cupid. So are you and your mama–but not Vikram Seth.
Upon his death in 1994, Ralph Ellison left behind some 2,000 pages of a never-finished second novel–more than forty years of fine-tuning what his literary executor, John F.
As I’m driven to the home of Ivan Klima, one of the Czech Republic’s most internationally respected writers, the hand of fate slips in beside me in the taxi.
From the Satanic Versifier, more love and more death, with a song in his heart.
The world is a bleak canvas, all black and white, with only some grays “so that the black and the white [don’t] bump into each other so hard.” The gods are quarrelsome and bored.
If you adored Catherine Texier’s Breakup last year, fell to the floor gushing sympathetic tears for the abandoned raconteur and raised your fists with indignant empathy over the cruelty o
On a trip to Russia in 1995 I was told by the young writers I met there that when a certain famed Soviet novelist returned to his native land, he was an offensive anachronism to them.
If there’s one thing everyone agrees on about Hawaii writer Lois-Ann Yamanaka, it’s that she has a perfect ear for local pidgin dialects, which change cadence and idiom throughout the islands of
For 300 years, Christopher Wren’s Sheldonian Theater has been the center of ceremonial life at Oxford.