In 1956, announcing her opposition to Oxford’s decision to award Harry Truman an honorary degree, the philosopher Elizabeth Anscombe noted that “protests by people who have not power are a waste of time.”
It is the expression of a woman existing in a post-revolutionary age—which, The Fraud suggests, is where well-meaning liberals, even those with novelistic aspirations, may be doomed to live.
The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield came out in 1993. I first heard of the novel when people began asking me if I had written it.
Technology was the wonder of our age. It seemed to promise us power, and we took this power for our own. What kind of power was it? We didn’t ask.
It is the expression of a woman existing in a post-revolutionary age—which, The Fraud suggests, is where well-meaning liberals, even those with novelistic aspirations, may be doomed to live.
The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield came out in 1993. I first heard of the novel when people began asking me if I had written it.
Technology was the wonder of our age. It seemed to promise us power, and we took this power for our own. What kind of power was it? We didn’t ask.
The battles of late medieval times have had a long, poisonous afterlife in this part of the world, and there is something ominous about Vijayanagara’s desolate beauty.
War has settled into my imagination and doesn’t want to leave. Maybe it has always been there.
A writer is a creature of solitude: Has there ever been a bigger lie?
I was going to keep my mouth shut, but given all the commotion, what else can I do? Let someone else spill the tea, making me look the fool with their fabricated version of events and taking all the credit for themselves?
I am not seeking to establish any kind of order—I know full well there isn’t any.
The alarm clock went off and she did not remember setting it. It was a summer day: one of the first really hot ones.
“Wild and mysterious regions”—that’s the territory I felt I had been treading in trying to conceive, and my own incredulity was slipping away each day.
The city of Venice may very well be, as the architecture theorist Manfredo Tafuri once claimed, “an unbearable challenge to the world of modernity,” but the Venice Architecture Biennale is mostly experienced as a challenge to the modern attention span.
The first time I encountered the Bomb in a Cormac McCarthy novel, I missed it.
