Politico reporter Kendra Marr was forced to resign her position this week after New York Times writer Susan Stellin alerted Marr’s editors to similarities between her transportation policy story published Sept. 26 and Marr’s story published Oct. 10. An investigation by Politico into Marr’s work found seven instances of likely plagiarism. Regret the Error points out that Politico should call Marr’s stories what they are: serious plagiarism.
Marr Resigns
Aisle Nine
Recommended Reading: “Voices of the Walmart.”
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Un Bon Dia
To begin to translate a book, you need to hone your knowledge of the language in which it’s written. To write a great essay about translating a book, you need a backstory, an interesting format and two or three foreign parables. At The Rumpus, Brian Oliu writes about translating his grandfather’s book from the Catalan.
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Fetishized rituals
Robert McCrum's got a question for you, and I'm interested to know the answer, too. Who are the naked writers? My first thought was perhaps Truman Capote, because he wrote so often from bed, but that's not exactly strong evidence. Anyway, here are some writers in their underpants.
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Slave Driver
Recommended Reading: Katherine Sunderland on Michael Bundock's The Fortunes of Francis Barber.
Old-Fashioned
“And now, as an adult, I love nothing more than curling up with a good book, closing my eyes, breathing in through my nostrils, keeping my eyes closed and not reading yet continuing to draw in oxygen for hours, and, thanks to my fetishized olfactory associations for printed and bound matter, becoming sexually aroused.” On the scent that no e-reader can ever replace.
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Geoff Dyer on Pagetti’s Syria
The devastating images of Syria shot by Franco Pagetti have been collected into a series entitled Veiled Aleppo. Over at The New Republic, Geoff Dyer writes about one of them. It’s an image, Dyer observes, that features “symbols … of the death throes not of a city but of film.”
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Hell is Other People
The Morning News posts a terrific (if slightly ingenuous?) take on the vacuity of the poet's life in NYC: Frank O'Hara it ain't. Whether this is a failure of the city, or merely of the poet, is an open question. (via The Book Bench).