You can expect a review later in the day, but first, a few bits o'randomness.
This seems like the biggest no-brainer ever. People read books to feel better? Um...duh. Now there's a name for it: bibliographic therapy. Whatever. A polished turd is still a turd, no matter what you call it.
This seems like the biggest no-brainer ever. People read books to feel better? Um...duh. Now there's a name for it: bibliographic therapy. Whatever. A polished turd is still a turd, no matter what you call it.
There's nothing you can't find on the internet
And I don't disagree with the author's point, but really: do we need to be told that
If they are paying people to point out the obvious, I'd like to suggest my writing an article on how hot it is today. Think someone will pay me to write about that?
Finally, although its fiction and poetry convinced me to enroll in a two-year subscription to The New Yorker, I've come to realize that I really don't care for most of the fiction and poetry found within its pages. Thankfully, I'll be receiving my final issue next week and so won't have to look at it anymore. I will miss the cartoons, though.
At any rate, Stuart Dybek's "If I Vanished" (found in the most recent issue) is an exception to this rule, and it's a story I plan to save and reread. It says much about viewing life through the lens of a work of art (in this case it's a movie, and not a very good one at that).
More importantly, it illustrates how love and loss are so intricately connected; for example, when thinking about a piece of classical music he hasn't heard in years, the narrator realizes "that sometimes one stops listening to a beloved masterpiece in order to continue to love it." Sometimes, the same can be said for a person.
Read "If I Vanished" here (it's free).
People turn many places when they are confused or in some sort of turmoil. Many turn to reading material, fiction and nonfiction. This often is referred to as bibliographic therapy. This term means exactly as it sounds: the achievement, better understanding or closure to some conflict or trauma via the written word.
Oftentimes individuals participate in bibliographic therapy without even being aware. I believe it's one of the many reasons some people enjoy reading in the first place. Do you find a sad, sappy love story when a romance of your own doesn't work out? How many times do you find yourself checking out those self-help books? Think about how large those self-help sections are these days.
If they are paying people to point out the obvious, I'd like to suggest my writing an article on how hot it is today. Think someone will pay me to write about that?
Finally, although its fiction and poetry convinced me to enroll in a two-year subscription to The New Yorker, I've come to realize that I really don't care for most of the fiction and poetry found within its pages. Thankfully, I'll be receiving my final issue next week and so won't have to look at it anymore. I will miss the cartoons, though.
At any rate, Stuart Dybek's "If I Vanished" (found in the most recent issue) is an exception to this rule, and it's a story I plan to save and reread. It says much about viewing life through the lens of a work of art (in this case it's a movie, and not a very good one at that).More importantly, it illustrates how love and loss are so intricately connected; for example, when thinking about a piece of classical music he hasn't heard in years, the narrator realizes "that sometimes one stops listening to a beloved masterpiece in order to continue to love it." Sometimes, the same can be said for a person.
Read "If I Vanished" here (it's free).
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