Below Valerie Trueblood, author most recently of the novel Seven Loves, praises Ian Patterson’s Guernica and Total War, an indictment and examination of war from the skies, just out from Harvard University Press last month. I wonder why in this country we don’t hear the word “wartime.” Here we are in year five of one war and year six . . .
Kendra Binney’s paintings — which combine malice and melodrama with storybook cuteness — are like illustrations for fairy tales not yet written. Her originals run up to £425 at galleries, apparently, but I blundered upon her work last month at Etsy. There you can pick up small prints (mounted on birch wood and covered with clear plastic resin) for $20. . . .
It must have been these rows of tall trees — a required feature of any Rowan Oak photo — that led me to believe Faulkner’s house was a massive and imposing structure. Maybe because I was expecting something so grand, the visit was unexpectedly intimate. The house hasn’t changed much since the Nobel Laureate’s death in 1962 (except that it’s . . .
“The most astounding grave there was Oscar Wilde’s, which was covered in graffiti and lipstick marks; the most disappointing was Proust’s…”
Until I recover from running around the city for ten days with a 13-year-old girl who looks 17, please visit About Last Night, now featuring CAAF.