Wolcott from afar
James Wolcott, in Cape May this month, has been pondering shits, savagery, and Auchincloss, Katha Pollitt, and more, more, more.
James Wolcott, in Cape May this month, has been pondering shits, savagery, and Auchincloss, Katha Pollitt, and more, more, more.
Previously unheard Graham Greene radio interviews shed new light on his work — and his eye strain and opium use. (Thanks, Dave Lull.)
The love letters to independent bookstores continue. Below Joel Turnipseed, author of Baghdad Express: A Gulf War Memoir and blogger at Hotel Zero, praises St. Paul’s Micawber’s. Micawber’s, the last indie bookstore in the Twin Cities not owned by a millionaire best-selling author, is a little gem of a shop that has no need to rely on seven-figure advances . . .
“The Insufferable Gaucho,” a translated story from the last book Roberto Bolaño delivered to his publisher, appears in the current New Yorker.
Blackberry = Crackberry? No, says Andrew O’Hagan. With crack you take breaks between puffs.