To what extent should literary taste be thought of as a given, especially when applied to literature from elsewhere?
Just what is that infamous thing, a close reading?
The other week, I went to see Toy Story 3. I’ve not seen the other two films in the Pixar series, but I figured I could catch the series’ drift, and it’s summer: what’s better than air conditioning and popcorn when the temperature hits 100?
In my last blog post, I wrote about the ways the Israeli artist Ohad Meromi’s recent installation “Creative Circle” allows its viewers to bodily encounter a set of objects that already exist in relationship. It’s understandable that we’d feel embodiment when we encounter performance (and, as Allison Carruth points out in her post on Jònsi, the gestural often hums along under the radar of critical engagement: when we attend to it, our own somatic encounters with performance can be startling).
A whole new generation of minority writers has come to prominence whose work signals a radical turn to a "postrace" era in American literature.
What is it about the human (Western?) mind that compels us to think in narratives?