Why would anyone write a book anonymously? Maria Bustillos ponders anonymity at The New Yorker. “Anonymous is more than a pseudonym. It is a stark declaration of intent: a wall explicitly thrown up, not only between writer and reader, but between the writer’s work and his life.”
Pamela Paul's recent New York Times piece on the "permanent reunion" Facebook has trapped us in and an 18-year-old's op-ed in the New York Post about why the shallow connections of Facebook led him to quit, have me feeling queasy about checking my timeline. So, I'm re-reading Edan Lepucki's essay about taking a social media detox instead. (Cue the cognitive dissonance of clicking the "like" button next to this entry.)
Martin Amis isn't the only highbrow fan of video games. As of last Friday, The Smithsonian American Art Museum in Washington has begun "The Art of Videogames," which is "one of the first major shows to explore the artistic power of the medium."
In the late 1860s, James Crichton-Browne, director of the West Riding Lunatic Asylum, gave Charles Darwin a collection of photographic portraits depicting the “afflicted and insane.” What followed was a six-year relationship in which both men corresponded about “the physical manifestations of natural selection.”