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My name is not Asher Lev, but I too have disappointed my parents with art. Asher looks and draws and paints. His father frowns. His mother wrings her hands and stares at the window. Chaim Potok’s ultra-orthodox coming-of-age novel feels like dust and unspoken guilt. It’s a story
Creativity is the key differentiator. Not creativity for the sake of juicing the algorithms, for boosting followers, for chasing money. Creativity for creativity’s sake. For producing stories and art and song and dance for the thrill of it, the pleasure of it. For the self-revelation and continuous astonishment at
It’s a heavy book. Not just in weight but in literary posturing. Andrew O’Hagan’s novel is about, well, it’s about a lot of things. About London. About money. About class. About art. About politics. About despair. About the past and how it sways and colours the
Knowledge and meaning are in freefall. We’re seeing system collapse before our very eyes. Everything we thought we could trust is slipping through our fingers, evaporating. Presidents no longer follow the law, politicians no longer practice decency. Scientists are doubted, experts are despised. Education is crumbling. Business is imploding.
I have finished reading the novel “Intermezzo” by Sally Rooney, and I am sitting in the same chair I sat in while reading it, which is also the chair where I think about what it means to have read something like this. Did I like it? A question with moral