He painted what was in front of him, producing an elegant rebuttal of the claim that it was no longer possible for a figurative painter to say anything new.
She never considered herself an artist. She was always more interested in documenting and preserving subcultures that were destined to blaze and then vanish.
A female entrepreneur from the Jim Crow South arrives in the 1950s industrial cauldron of Detroit, determined to figure out “how to make a way out of no way.”
He’s our longest-living ambassador of the written word, a relic from a time when a certain type of person treated books as sacred objects rather than as products that could be sold at a profit.
Most novels sell only a few thousand copies, and at a big house those writers wind up feeling like a failure. It’s much easier for us to have a success.
It took just $60 to hire somebody to kill somebody. A loft rented for $350 a month. A double feature of foreign films at the Carnegie Hill Cinema cost $1.50. The World Trade Center loomed in the distance “like twin phosphorescent robots.”
"It’s like walking a high wire without a net, but it’s a second career and it’s a chance to turn a corner. I feel I can really appreciate it at this point in my life because it’s the first job I’ve ever had where it’s just absolute blue sky."
Poets, editors, songwriters, teachers, journalists, novelists—some great writers and some under-sung ones left us this year. Here is a selective compendium of literary obituaries from 2017.
I think it’s kind of a universal situation—that sooner or later we often find ourselves accepted for being one thing, but in our hearts we’re something else.