The Point Magazine: The Art of Nostalgia
...history tells us that the dreams of ridiculous men and women have a way of coming true, if not in the fashion they anticipated, and that the track record of self-conceived “realists”—a type identifiable above all by a certain tone of knowing contempt, the same tone adopted by Anderson’s harshest critics—is checkered at best.
Liberties Magazine: Greater Than Gatsby
Courage requires existing — requires acknowledging we always exist — at the collision point of fantasy and reality, each continually acting on the other. There is no end to fantasy; there is no dominating life. To think otherwise is to consign one’s self to a permanent adolescence.
n+1 Magazine: Sympathy and Indifference
…in real life, say at a dinner party, you’re caught up in your own concerns, fragmenting what’s happening in front of you into discrete, self-interested signals, into information. In Hong’s films, the long takes and repetitions short-circuit that process, forcing you to look at what’s really there.
The New York Review of Architecture: Everybody Must Get ’Stoned
With ferry traffic swarming the not-yet-bridged East River, rows of brownstone-faced brick row houses spread out from Brooklyn Heights and from waterfront loci of shipping and manufacturing. The era of the brownstone had begun.
The Point Magazine: Saying I Love You
I’ve been nervously pacing, and as I allow myself to breathe once again I discover that I am in my grandmother’s room. The bed missing, the room is a jumble of cardboard boxes and misaligned furniture, strewn in a half-circle around an empty core. I look through her things for a while, searching, perhaps, for a more capacious love.
History is about beginnings and endings; in this sense, the Internet knows no history. Rather, it’s simply something that you dip in and out of, but is always there, always accumulating. The Internet is exhausting because, unlike life, it won’t end.
Tablet Magazine: Into This Clearing
Stumps were here and there visible, remnants of wooden crosses gone to rot. The grass was lush. As often happened in cemeteries I experienced a twinge of nausea, as if the sheer mass of horizontal bodies momentarily convinced me that they, not I, had the correct orientation.
I wanted Alanna. But I didn’t want to be like all the other people who wanted Alanna. I didn’t want to be Ryan, I didn’t want to be the drunk or the bartender. I didn’t want to be me. Did I then want to be Alanna? Gradually, very gradually, the face of the young woman from the DM, with her restless, uneasy dreams, came before me as I glared at the cold sidewalk.
He harangued, cajoled, victimized and pleaded with Alice, the immaterial correspondent who resided, like a genie in a lamp, within his device. And then he texted her again.
n+1 Magazine: The Easiest Job in the World
And Leo still laughed harder than all of us. He had gone from choking to dry-heaving, from red to crimson. The heavy summer air sparkled. We felt perfectly enclosed.