David Kinney photographed by Marjan Osman Gartland.
He not busy being born is busy dying.
The answer is blowing in the wind.
Everybody must get stoned.
If you know who wrote these words, you’re probably a music fan of a certain age. If you’ve thought about them for any length of time, you’re a well-versed one.
If you know every printed and recorded variant of these words, every concert in which they’ve been sung, every cover band that’s ever essayed them, you’re a Dylanologist.
A Dylanologist—a student ...
Jeff Guinn photographed by Jill Johnson.
The Western isn’t dead, not with Cormac McCarthy and Larry McMurtry kicking up dust, not with the spirits of Tony Hillerman and Elmore Leonard wandering around among the cactus and mesas. But the genre, a branch of American popular writing since the 1870s, just doesn’t get much respect. Like country music, square dancing, and Cracker Barrel, it hasn’t been made ironic enough to be hip, hasn’t found enough young readers to make it seem something other than a province for ...
George Prochnik photographed by Elisabeth Prochnik.
“To be frank, I think his world had vanished long before he entered it.” So, at the close of Wes Anderson’s new film The Grand Budapest Hotel, says Mr. Moustafa, the mysterious hotelier, of his mentor, the harried but unbowed concierge without whom the place would fall to pieces.
The sentiment subtly echoes the title of the memoir, The World of Yesterday, written by the man whom Anderson cites as the inspiration for his film. Born in 1881 in ...
Arthur C. Clarke photographed by Charles Adams.
Appreciations: Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End
Twenty-five years ago, President George H.W. Bush announced plans for the Space Exploration Initiative, which intended to one day put humans on Mars. Today rovers, and high-resolution cameras are busily gathering data in advance of our arrival in the flesh, and it’s just a matter of time—if there’s any time left, that is—before a human foot makes its mark on Martian dust.
All that may be a Very Bad Thing, to trust the ...
Greg Iles photographed by Caroline Hungerford.
“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” So, famously, said William Faulkner, Mississippian and novelist, who knew a thing or two about memories that refused to die, to say nothing of the events that fueled them.
Greg Iles, Mississippian and novelist, knows the wiles of local history as well, a history full of nasty episodes that those civic stalwarts who trade in antebellum architecture and roots music would just as soon forget. In Iles’ longtime home of ...
Maybe the world ends with a mushroom cloud, or a liquid cough, or even a zombie apocalypse. Whatever the case, to judge by the reports that are filtering out of august places such as the United Nations and NASA, we humans, having befouled our nests for far too long, have just about played out our time as the lords of all we survey.
Think end of the world as we know it. Think extremely bad vibes. Think, as Mad Max ...
Gabriel García Márquez courtesy of The Granger Collection
He came, he wrote, from a land where the sun burned so brightly that the sunflowers didn’t know where to turn, a place where ice was a mystery and history had a Faulknerian habit of finding no beginning and no end, but a whole lot of middle. From these things, Gabriel García Márquez conjured a body of literature that altered the course of the novel, allowing for whimsy and accident—and, if there are few neatly defined beginnings and ends in ...
Zero Mostel in the 1964 production of Fiddler on the Roof.
It is almost never a winning proposition to argue with God. He tends to be jealous of his position and sure, as you might expect, of the rightness of his cause, whereas the bargainer down below tends always to miss some tiny point in the fine print and to pay dearly for the lapse.
Just ask Job. Or ask Tevye the milkman, the rumpled familiar of Anatevka and other shtetls in what is now western Ukraine, a place of terrible ...