From the increase in hate crimes in public libraries to Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech, here are last week’s biggest literary headlines: In recent weeks, public libraries have seen a rise in hate crimes. Reported incidents include the defacement of books about Islam with racist language and imagery, anti-Semitic
You can’t make someone love books if they never could afford to access them in the first place, and you can’t sustain any kind of passion for reading if you don’t have the means to do so.
The house in Manomet was purchased in the 1950s by my husband’s paternal grandparents. It’s a sweet, small place—bare bones and un-winterized, thus uninhabitable come October. Each day during my stay, I can’t help but spend some time examining the little library.
I’ll read anything if it’s great. A romance novel, or a soldier’s tale; a book about Zsa Zsa Gabor, or one about Obama. I know what kinds of books dorky, urban-literary type of guys are supposed to be reading–those by Jonathan Safran Foer, and things titled Introduction to Banjo–but I hate
I can only admit this because I believe I’m not alone. I believe that every writer—maybe every creative person, maybe anyone whose life is ruled by ambition, by a calling beyond rationality—has an imaginary nemesis. The person isn’t imaginary, mind you. But the rivalry is. Here’s what I mean