First it was a fire, then it was a color, and before too long it became a regime unto itself
As familiar as they are, these orange maps can only depict a rehearsal, a prelude. In the pre-vaccine moment the Covid maps were terrifying, but examining them, you could imagine a future after orange. One feels very different looking at the climate maps. There is no de-escalating from orange.
Months into her tenure, she’s invited to light the Hanukkah menorah at the Obama White House.
We have had too much America and not enough América in our shared hemispheric life.
On Frederick Wiseman
As much as we may want their subjects to be actors in the historical sense, there are no individuals; there is only society, plainly laid out for us to see. There are always “characters,” but their significance lies in the way they intersect with and illuminate social structure. They never motivate action — what they do instead is perform (and sometimes declaim) the logics under which they operate.
Gass’s sentences were the least datable, are the least dated.
“We” will never go to Mars. Well, I won’t.
Feminism has always been divided
The point of all this cataloging — which is less schematic in Lewis’s presentation than my summary suggests — is to help us recognize traces of enemy feminism when we encounter them in the present. And we will encounter them, Lewis argues, because they’re everywhere.
Buildings were on their way to extinction — and so were sentiments and sensibilities.
On Claudio Lomnitz
Both the neoliberal turn and the nationalist backlash, Lomnitz argues, are parts of a single process that has given rise to a new kind of state — one characterized by “an excess of sovereignty and a deficit of administrative capacity.” It’s hard to imagine a stronger sovereign for Mexico than AMLO, but his administration failed to make the state more accountable or trustworthy.
On ecopoetry
Eco-confessionalism marshals the self-reflexivity of poetic language, its distance from everyday communication, to register commitments without reifying them, to critique the present without lapsing into fatalism about the future. Looking outward, to the desperate reality of our world, and inward, to its own lyric preconditions, this new poetry is learning how to speak, subtly and capaciously, about the biggest crisis in history.
Not literature, but dramaturgy
It’s a literature of dimming stars, smoggy drives through flammable chaparral, frequent benders, prostitutes. Flash periods of productivity where somebody bangs out a script in a week. There’s at least one genre-disorienting tour through the facades of a studio lot, like the masterpiece sequence in Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust, and plenty of languid musing about the vicissitudes of fame, often delivered poolside.
When the English department is your world, the world starts to look like an English department.
