Reading Didion’s prose has always been an aural experience as much as a literary one, as much about rhythm and intonation.
So raw on the page that it infuses you.
This is autobiography at its most fragmented.
Didion circles the images of her past like a wary woman who has found a basket lodged in the reeds that contains a sleeping infant.
Joan Didion is, as we know, a cool customer.
The theme of male friendship is virgin territory for Rush, but the basic framework of the protagonist-couple and their idioverse is a Rushian staple.
Some doors opened, were squeezed through, then slammed shut, trapping women like Blew in lives filled with unprecedented challenges.
Stop depositing your soul in the Lake of Fire
Many have been sleeping in money. The money is congregating in the street.
Does this movement want to curb the plutocrats? Or does it just want to be?
Our sit-in 46 years ago was a guerrilla raid; this is Wall Street under siege by the Lilliputians.
The live stream’s redirection of our attention from single zap action to ongoing occupation parallels precisely the evolution of tactics represented
Hainley’s occasional lashings are needles meant to puncture consensus.
The exiled person or the category of exile doesn’t exist, especially in regards to literature.
Diffuse? Certainly. Impossible to represent in its fullness? Certainly not.
The crisis occurred and persists because an alternative was and is mostly unthinkable.