print • Sept/Oct/Nov 2006
- print • Sept/Oct/Nov 2006
- print • Sept/Oct/Nov 2006
- print • Sept/Oct/Nov 2006
- print • Sept/Oct/Nov 2006
- print • Sept/Oct/Nov 2006
Comic-book writer Alan Moore, author of V for Vendetta, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, and the much-lauded Watchmen, insists that his three-volume graphic novel, Lost Girls, be viewed as pornography—a provocative sound bite if ever I’ve heard one. Produced in collaboration with artist Melinda Gebbie, the oversize boxed set has been sixteen years in the making. During this period, it’s assumed mythic proportions, eagerly anticipated by some, reviled by others, assumed unpublishable by many.
- print • Sept/Oct/Nov 2006
- print • Sept/Oct/Nov 2006
- print • Sept/Oct/Nov 2006
- print • Sept/Oct/Nov 2006
The one stream of poetry which is continually flowing is slang. —G. K. Chesterton One of the many benefits of owning the two-volume New Partridge Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English (Routledge), besides the sheer size of the thing up there on a shelf with your other weighty reference books, is that you can dip in just about anywhere and enjoy the exuberant, endless display of human inventiveness with language. Let me demonstrate by flipping open volume 1 to . . . dick, as chance would have it. Besides ten meanings for that word, all familiar to an American speaker
- print • Dec/Jan 2007
Few writers have enjoyed a life as illustrious and a career as versatile as Gore Vidal. A self-taught intellectual and the author of twenty-five novels and eleven essay collections—among them Julian (1964), Myra Breckinridge (1968), Creation (1981), Lincoln (1984), Screening History (1992), and United States: Essays 1952–1992 (1993)—Vidal appears to have done it all. He has run for seats in both the House and the Senate, written for the Broadway stage and both the small and big screens, acted in films, drawn the blueprint for what would become the Peace Corps, appeared regularly on the late-night talk-show circuit, and known
- print • Dec/Jan 2007
- print • Dec/Jan 2007
- print • Dec/Jan 2007
- print • Dec/Jan 2007
- print • Dec/Jan 2007
- print • Dec/Jan 2007
When a young Edith Wharton first met Henry James at a dinner party, the twenty-five-year-old New York socialite thought she knew just the thing to make a lasting impression: Deck yourself out in the latest French design. Needless to say, this had little effect on the stoic and reclusive James. “Those were the principles in which I had been brought up,” she would later write with some embarrassment, “and it would never have occurred to me that I had anything but my youth, and my pretty frock, to commend me.”
- print • Dec/Jan 2007
- print • Dec/Jan 2007
- print • Dec/Jan 2007