Keep your bat signal, your blinking red phone. Dammit Jim! I’m no super hero!
There’s a meme going around asking “what radicalized you?”
We didn’t pray to God, we wished upon the stars, which we kept in a magical, flickering box in the den…
My old college friend Mia asked me for suggestions for reading for her father, a Jungian psychoanalyst with some time on his hands who, she says, is a little bored.
I’m working on my dreaded “get-to-know-you” video for my A-term course, and finally settled on my “one thing you probably didn’t know about me” thing…
If Hemingway or Henry Miller decided all the sudden to join a monastery, they would basically have ended up being Thomas Merton. Whatever theory of his untimely death you land on, Merton was as manly a monk in that mid-century American mold as could be imagined.
I kept waiting for Schnabel to make the connection between Vincent’s turbulent paintings, which he worked on in a constant manic frenzy, and his life–how he was in life.
I’m fine with pineapple on pizza.
Suffice it to say: Pompeo likes to talk about the rapture, a lot.
She always called him a goatherd when she knew he’d been a shepherd. He had told her a hundred times: “sheep are grazers; goats are browsers.”