Nigella Lawson, British domestic goddess and former book critic, seems to have offended her novelist friend Sophie Waugh in a move reminiscent of the beginnings the hallowed hissy fit between V.S. Naipaul and Paul Theroux.
OK, this is complicated
Bro, Do You Even Read?
The Toast may be closing its doors soon, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still putting out hilarious pieces. This week, it’s Vape Aficionado’s Guide to Finding a Token Lady-Writer, featuring such gems as: “Margaret Atwood: Because she’s good at Twitter and you forgot how to spell ‘Le Guin,'” and “George Eliot: Whoops, you thought George was a dude, didn’t you? Purely accidental, but it still counts!”
History Lesson – Part II
Who would have predicted, when an unassuming history of post-punk called Our Band Could Be Your Life was published in 2001, that we’d be celebrating its tenth anniversary with concert blowouts and Paris Review Daily interviews? Most anyone who read it, that’s who.
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What’s In a Name?
The practice of naming children after a dead sibling was surprisingly common up until the late-nineteenth century–Salvador Dali, Ludwig Van Beethoven, and Vincent Van Gogh were each “necroynms,” or the second of their name. Jeannie Vasco’s essay for The Believer on necronyms and grief is perfect to read alongside this essay for The Millions by Chloe Benjamin on naming not humans, but novels.
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“A man who kept to himself”
Recommended reading: one essay on George Orwell‘s stomping grounds on the Scottish island where he wrote 1984 in the throes of a tubercular fever, and another on the tiny Indian town of Motihari where he was born.
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The Bronte Adventures
13-year-old Charlotte Brontë and her brother Branwell wrote adventure books in 2-inch books they sewed themselves. The results are exactly as adorable as you imagine. (Pair with our own essay on the sisters’ beginnings.)
Atwood Adapted
Netflix and Hulu are set to adapt Margaret Atwood’s novels Alias Grace and The Handmaid’s Tale, respectively. Check out our own Edan Lepucki’s piece on Atwood’s vision of the future.
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Truly the kind of high society drama that belongs in Evelyn Waugh’s novels. Too funny.