Now I’m going to make you disappear in this text. It’s as simple as that. In you go. But why, my friend asks, that’s what I’m asking you, I say, what’s this all about, she says, yes, I say, that’s what I’d like to know, too. In you go, I say, then shut the lid, then everything is calm and quiet. Calm and quiet sometimes occur in friendships, and there are different kinds: calm after the storm, calm before the storm, or simply calm. This last sort of calm has something to do with the disappearance of the friendship, that much is certain; perhaps this calm is not calm at all, but silence, and perhaps this silence itself is the cause of the silence, in which case the disappearance would be something circular.
I spend a lot of time worrying about how to better come across as professional and someone who is deserving of respect. Reading King's Holly stories helps me ease up on my anxieties surrounding all that because she shows that it's not about appearing to be something, it's about actually being it. And if people want to try to bulldoze you and are slow to realize the strength you have within, then those people are on the precipice of a big surprise that will only work in your favor when you accomplish your goals, as they busy themselves with underestimating you.
In summoning a Category Five hurricane to the page, I aimed to fictionalize the weather of now, and I’ve continued to look for ways to give imaginative voice to the unpredictable, turbo-charged winds of these days.
My new job came with a research stipend. I’d never had one before—a few grand that would renew each year for five years and then end. What could I use it for? “Anything,” I was told, which seemed remarkable, but as the months passed, it turned out to be harder to use the money than I thought. The rules were confusing, evolving. Every expense—a print cartridge, a pen, a meal with a student—required an array of online forms, approvals, files uploaded in special formats, and was a hassle for the beleaguered office administrator wrote me careful, patient emails about my failures.
Only books required a single, simple form. I soon understood that “anything” meant I could buy books.
“Steve Martin Writes the Written Word” is an aptly-named collection and excellent introduction to the comedian’s best writings, including some new material.
Hartman’s nine chapters periodize how Marx has been thought of in American history, from “Bolshevik” and “Prophet” to “False Prophet” and then “Red Menace.” If you’ve never read about Marx’s life, Hartman’s book doubles as a short biography; if you’ve never read The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte (1852), Hartman’s book is a primer on a variety of Marx’s most cited and important philosophy. If you’ve never read Marx’s interpreters—who are many, from Kenneth Burke to Frantz Fanon and David Harvey—Karl Marx in America is a road map. But the most interesting insight in the book comes from the laundry list of Marx’s haters, and their complete inability to land a good punch on our boy.
Sedgewick’s book doesn’t offer a clear answer on what it means to be a father, but he offers a series of enlightening stories about how several famous figures have approached fatherhood. It’s a motley assortment of dads, ranging from Plato to Bob Dylan.