The family of Norman Rockwell is going to the mats over a new biography by Deborah Solomon, which raises questions about the artist’s sexuality. Says Rockwell’s granddaughter, “She layers the whole biography with these innuendos … These things she’s writing about Norman Rockwell are simply not true.”
Everyone knows that Heart of Darkness was adapted as Apocalypse Now, but have you ever listened to the 1938 radio version Orson Welles did with the Mercury Theatre? The sound quality is poor, but it’s compelling nonetheless.
“One day in L’viv, in a park near a church, we ran into a film crew. The park was full of extras in costumes, idling, waiting for their turn to be part of an illusion. We spoke to them and it was much like speaking to ghosts, though, unlike ghosts, some of them demanded to be paid for being photographed.”
“‘The verses already carry the mark of a life haunted by all that is mortal,’ writes Moscatelli, ‘the temperament of Albert Cossery being more attuned to the black than the blue of life.’ Stealing a glimpse into the teenage abyss, we find flickers of what is to come.”
I will strike down wooden houses; I will burn aluminum clapboard skin; I will strike down garages where crimson Toyotas sleep side by side; I will explode palaces of gold, silver, and alabaster: the summer greathouse and its folly together. Where shopping malls spread plywood and plaster out, and roadhouses serve steak and potatoskins beside Alaska King Crab; where triangular flags proclaim tribes of identical campers; where airplans nose to tail exhale kerosene, weeds and ashes will drowse in continual twilight.
“I don’t think science fiction is a very good name for it, but it’s the name that we’ve got. It is different from other kinds of writing, I suppose, so it deserves a name of its own. But where I can get prickly and combative is if I’m just called a sci-fi writer. I’m not. I’m a novelist and poet. Don’t shove me into your damn pigeonhole, where I don’t fit, because I’m all over. My tentacles are coming out of the pigeonhole in all directions.” —Ursula K. Le Guin
Little bird, little bird, couched in the heather, Swearing no doubt at this changeable weather, Sad is my heart that, come soft wind or raw gust, I cannot shoot thee this Twelfth day of August; Chained to the City, for sportsmen a poor land, Vainly I dream of the scents of the moorland; Vainly I vision the swift noisy flutter Of wings o’er the whins as I pace by the gutter; Vainly I dream thro’ the mists I am trekking, Finger on trigger, ear-strained for thy kekking; Vainly I fancy my gun’s at the shoulder, Bang! And you topple as dead as a boulder; Vainly, for never I’ve done any shooting, Having spent all my life in the purlieus of Tooting. Ah but, sweet bird, tho’ I’m not there to greet thee, Know I shall gratefully, platefully eat thee.