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.
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!”
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.
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.
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.)