“The striking thing about her search for God is that she sometimes finds him. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek’s second chapter, after a kind of introduction, is titled ‘Seeing.’ There are two kinds, she explains. The common variety is active, where you strain, against the running babble of internal monologue, to pay attention to what’s actually in front of you. But, she tells us, ‘there is another kind of seeing that involves a letting go.’ You do not seek, you wait. It isn’t prayer; it is grace. The visions come to you, and they come from out of the blue.” On Annie Dillard’s turn to silence.
“I am nostalgic for letters. There’s a craft that’s been lost in expressing some kind of desire or passion or bodily experience for someone else.” From James Joyce to Frida Kahlo, The Guardian collects bits of great artists' erotic missives to one another. And speaking of literary love letters, how about Nicholson Baker's Vox [ed. note: it makes a great Valentine's Day gift]?
Now this would be a strange way for an obscure book to become an overnight bestseller. Among The Smoking Gun's photos of the Tiger Woods crash scene is a shot of a book called Get a Grip on Physics by John Gribbin lying amid the broken glass. Maybe brushing up on physics can help your golf game.
“Some psychiatrists say that music has therapeutic powers and can even restore fluidity and mental structure for a moment in some patients – music is the opposite of chaos. It may be that heavy metal, the music his parents blamed in part for this entire catastrophe, is the only thing that gives order to my cousin’s worn-out brain. No one knows, except him.” On trying to seek refuge from schizophrenia in heavy metal.
"[B]eing twelve is its own psychosexual dystopian satire, and I was not in on the joke." Abbey Fenbert writes for Catapult about Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, reading-while-tween, and being a seventh-grade book censor. See also: our own brave editor-in-chief, Lydia Kiesling, on reading Huxley a week after last November's election.