It could take from Monday to Thursday and three horses. The ink was unstable, the characters cramped, the paper tore where it creased. Stained with the leather and sweat of its journey, the envelope absorbed each climatic shift, as well as the salt and grease of the rider who handed it over with a four-day chance that by now things were different and while the head had to listen, the heart could wait.
—Lavinia Greenlaw, from “A World Where News Travelled Slowly.”

It could take from Monday to Thursday
and three horses. The ink was unstable,
the characters cramped, the paper tore where it creased.
Stained with the leather and sweat of its journey,
the envelope absorbed each climatic shift,
as well as the salt and grease of the rider
who handed it over with a four-day chance
that by now things were different and while the head
had to listen, the heart could wait.

Lavinia Greenlaw, from “A World Where News Travelled Slowly.”

“One of our favorite places to play, all throughout my childhood, was in cemeteries. We would go get fried chicken at the Woolworth’s on Broughton Street and go with our sketch pads to the Colonial Cemetery to picnic atop the family vaults that were all shaped like gigantic brick bedsteads.”
Edgar Oliver remembers the “greatest artist in the whole wide world.”

“One of our favorite places to play, all throughout my childhood, was in cemeteries. We would go get fried chicken at the Woolworth’s on Broughton Street and go with our sketch pads to the Colonial Cemetery to picnic atop the family vaults that were all shaped like gigantic brick bedsteads.”

Edgar Oliver remembers the “greatest artist in the whole wide world.”

The engraving by Brigitte Coudrain shows “the distinctive quality of an imagination which has not been blurred by the gratuitous elaboration of a well-learned craft,” writes Nelson W. Aldrich, Jr. “These bizarre little figures transfixed at the moment of love or decision or some quixotic hunting … possess something of the guileless delight of the child who frightens herself with imagined terrors… then laughs.”

The engraving by Brigitte Coudrain shows “the distinctive quality of an imagination which has not been blurred by the gratuitous elaboration of a well-learned craft,” writes Nelson W. Aldrich, Jr. “These bizarre little figures transfixed at the moment of love or decision or some quixotic hunting … possess something of the guileless delight of the child who frightens herself with imagined terrors… then laughs.”

In 2002, radio producers interviewed “New Yorkers who were among the last—and in some cases, the very last—to hold jobs in industries that were dying … They came up with seven people—a Brooklyn fisherman, a water-tower builder, a cowbell maker, a knife-and-scissor grinder, a lighthouse keeper, an old-fashioned bra fitter, and a seltzer man.” The interviews are now online.
For more of this morning’s roundup, click here.

In 2002, radio producers interviewed “New Yorkers who were among the last—and in some cases, the very last—to hold jobs in industries that were dying … They came up with seven people—a Brooklyn fisherman, a water-tower builder, a cowbell maker, a knife-and-scissor grinder, a lighthouse keeper, an old-fashioned bra fitter, and a seltzer man.” The interviews are now online.

For more of this morning’s roundup, click here.

“I think that the difference right now between good art and bad art is that the good artists are the people who are, in one way or another, creating, out of deep and honest concern, a vision of life in the twentieth century that is worth pursuing. And the bad artists, of whom there are many, are whining or moaning or staring, because it’s fashionable, into the dark abyss.” —John Gardner, born on this day in 1933

“I think that the difference right now between good art and bad art is that the good artists are the people who are, in one way or another, creating, out of deep and honest concern, a vision of life in the twentieth century that is worth pursuing. And the bad artists, of whom there are many, are whining or moaning or staring, because it’s fashionable, into the dark abyss.” —John Gardner, born on this day in 1933

“I want my translation to be something impossible yet extant, something existing on the border of two utterly incompatible worlds, and yet to be a bridge between those worlds. I want the reader of the English version to feel the same shock I felt when reading the original. I don’t want to make it easy or acceptable, or to over-domesticate the text. There is an incredible poetry in the Hungarian language. Sometimes it’s infinitely gentle, sometimes it’s savage poetry.”
An interview with translator Ottilie Mulzet on László Krasznahorkai.

“I want my translation to be something impossible yet extant, something existing on the border of two utterly incompatible worlds, and yet to be a bridge between those worlds. I want the reader of the English version to feel the same shock I felt when reading the original. I don’t want to make it easy or acceptable, or to over-domesticate the text. There is an incredible poetry in the Hungarian language. Sometimes it’s infinitely gentle, sometimes it’s savage poetry.”

An interview with translator Ottilie Mulzet on László Krasznahorkai.