My purest reading pleasure of the year was my first stab at the work of Percival Everett, the gifted, prolific, genre-bending author of some 30 works of fiction.
If he accomplished nothing else in his outlandish lifetime, Limbaugh revealed the bankruptcy, hypocrisy, and outright cruelty burning in the heart of every right-wing moralist.
Russell's new book is sure to make readers foam all over again. Not because it’s a bad book, but because it is wildly uneven—with flashes of brilliance bogged down by half-baked analysis and muddy writing.
Many people liken quarantine to prison or war, yet there are salutary rewards to be found in such solitary activities as braiding your own hair, learning to play piano, watching birds, and photographing your daughters.
Why didn’t Edward Taylor insist on a screenwriting credit, and the money that would flow with it? As his stepdaughter implored him, “What are you doing? You can’t not get credit. It’s not fair and it’s not accurate.”
I grew suspicious Isenberg was writing a cleverly coded takedown of Trump, but I realized that was unlikely because the book was published five months before the 2016 election.
Sometimes it was almost deliciously scary [to] be fighting against these odds. The reward of having a creative enterprise be accepted is kind of amazing.