The end of the novel of love, and, thus, the end of love, and the end of love as a metaphor. This is what modernity hath wrought, and so forth. The point is: too much has happened (to us, as individuals, as peoples, as nations, recently) for us to hold onto the belief in love as the ultimate sour...
“So,” I begin. “How does your life feel to you these days?” “Like a chicken bone stuck in my craw,” he says. “I can’t swallow it and I can’t cough it up. Right now I’m trying to just not choke on it.” My friend Leonard is a witty, intelligent gay man, sophisticated about his own unhappiness. The ...
You might also flip to the beginning, hoping to discover that your introduction’s already there, already written—which is the feeling that this artifact has given you time and time again: that it knows your thoughts. The book is an object in furious motion, humming with its own energy, and all yo...