Maya Angelou reciting “Still I Rise“–in case you’re feeling be-Job-ed today and need of the consolation of literature or if you have doubts about the existence of true poetry in the present age. (Printed text of the poem is here.)
Still I Rise
In Case You Were Curious
Baratunde Thurston, stand-up comedian and director of digital for The Onion, stops by NPR’s Fresh Air to read from his new memoir and satirical self-help book How to Be Black.
It’s the reader.
In his review of Ben Marcus‘s The Flame Alphabet for the LARB, Lee Konstantinou suggests that we have now moved well beyond the death of the author: “In an era where everyone has a novel waiting to come out, authors are legion; it’s the reader who seems, well, dead.” When we interviewed Marcus earlier this year he did not seem particularly mournful. We also reviewed the novel.
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Mount Airy, North Carolina
Carve out some time today, and let Evan Smith Rakoff show you how a wonderful essay about Andy Griffith can also be about Robert Burns, William Shakespeare, John Keats, ambition, nostalgia, the Hollywood blacklist, class, and grief.
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…And If You Still Want More on The Pale King
I can’t recommend John Jeremiah Sullivan‘s 7,000-word article on The Pale King highly enough – not because he gets everything right, but because it’s what long-form writing about books should look like: passionate, lucid, wide-ranging, and awfully fun to read. I salute GQ for running it, and hope to see more literary coverage there in the future.
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Pure poetry? You’ve got to be kidding me. Pure garbage is more like it. Maya Angelou is exactly what is wrong with today’s poetry.
Dear Mr. YoJohnny,
How delightful to have such eloquent, intelligent, and civil readers as you. My warmest regards to you and my best wishes for lovely day, Emily