If at some point in your life you lose a beloved pet, and if, while mourning, you decide to write an obituary, know this — whatever you write will not be as good as E.B. White’s tribute to his dog. (You can read more pieces like it in the perfectly-titled E.B. White on Dogs.)
Over at the New Yorker, Akhil Sharma argues that "Anton Chekhov’s "Sakhalin Island", his long investigation of prison conditions in Siberia, is the best work of journalism written in the nineteenth century." Pair Sharma's argument, and admiration, with our own Sonya Chung's "I Heart Checkov" essay.
"I slumped into an empty corner opposite Say Goodbye, Cattullus and wept into my knees for a half hour." Catherine Lacey writes for The Paris Review's "Revisited" series, "in which writers look back on a work of art they first encountered long ago." Pair with our own Bill Morris's consideration of artists whose works channel writers.
We've been following the YA debate quite attentively - I wrote about it just last week - but Sarah Burnes's addition to the conversation, a blog post for The Paris Review, is one of the most eloquent I've read. In defense of reading YA fiction as a "grown-up" she writes, "The binary between children’s and adult fiction is a false one, based on a limited conception of the self. I have not ceased to be the person I was when I was an adolescent; in fact, to think so seems to me like a kind of dissociation from a crucial aspect of one’s self. And the critic should be concerned with what is good and what is bad, what is art and what is not—not with what’s 'appropriate.'"