Good news for us bookworms. New research indicates that regular reading and writing activity throughout one’s life can “slow down cognitive decline in old age.”
A recent Curiosity noted autistic British artist Stephen Wiltshire drawing the New York City skyline from memory. A new book Drawing Autism will collect the work of other autistic artists. Wiltshire chose not to be in the book because he didn't want to be seen as "just" an autistic artist. More from the book.
The New York Review of Books posts a vintage essay by Joan Didion on the films of Woody Allen: "This notion of oneself as a kind of continuing career—something to work at, work on, 'make an effort' for and subject to an hour a day of emotional Nautilus training, all in the interests not of attaining grace but of improving one’s 'relationships'—is fairly recent in the world, at least in the world not inhabited entirely by adolescents. In fact the paradigm for the action in these recent Woody Allen movies is high school."
Sci-fi writers are partly judged on how well they can predict where society is headed. There’s a reason that books with uncannily accurate forecasts of the future capture our interest long after their release. At Salon, William Gibson admits one way in which he got things wrong: he didn’t foresee the rise of social media. You could also read our own Bill Morris on Gibson’s Zero History.
Bibliophiles will rejoice at The New York Times's current travel section, which is entirely book-dedicated. The staff lead with "Temples for the Literary Pilgrim," which profiles jaw-dropping bookstores, cafés, and restaurants around the world; Ann Patchett provides a U.S. based bookstore pilgrimage; seven writers, including Geraldine Brooks and Ta-Nehisi Coates, reflect on their personal favorites; and Jennifer Moses writes about traveling as a bookworm. Might we also recommend this literary travelogue by Kate McCahill from our archives?
The New Yorker is not a magazine for the general public, writes Summer Brennan in the Literary Hub. “Because The New Yorker is nothing if not a view of the world from a comfortable vantage point. The intensity of the features is balanced by reviews of Manhattan restaurants and jokes about how busy we all are. Print magazines are tribal, and we swear our allegiance by buying them and opening them up. The New Yorker assumes that I am politically liberal and have read Chekhov’s The Seagull, and The New Yorker is right.”