“I wanted to tell my story. When I was growing up, I felt I was living in someone else’s Rokeby story. Its history seemed to stop when my great-grandmother died. My uncle, who put the place on the National Register and gave tours, would introduce me as, ‘This is my niece Alexandra, the next generation of Rokeby owners.’ Nobody was interested that I was the daughter of a Polish artist and a Harvard-educated aristocrat/blue-collar handyman.”
Weiwei had bitten the hand that fed, and placed himself “between the pen and the gun”, a deft paraphrase of none other than Mao Zedong (the first tweeter, per Weiwei), whose 'Little Red Book' of 200 quotations is an eerie obverse of this new collection of the artist's own tweets, blog entries and interview snippets.
Penned by one of the most important poets in Greece's modern literary history, Yannis Ritsos, the poems of "DIaries of Exile" offer glimpses into the daily routines of life in exile, the quiet violence Ritsos and his fellow prisoners endured, the fluctuations in the prisoners' sense of solidarity, and their struggle to maintain humanity through language.
To Moss, dreams not only offer us a chance to study more effectively for tests or open ourselves up to creative thinking but they also offer a self-authored roadmap to living richer and more fulfilling lives. “It’s about waking up to the fact that at every moment in life, we have a choice about where we put our energy and attention,” smiles Moss.
In other words, we need to know if there are different notions of freedom depending on which side one stands. It is our mission to continuously work on these fundamental issues: defining and re-defining core terms IS the actual implementation of them into our lives.
I can still close my eyes and see Tete sitting on her bed in her white nightgown which matched her white wavy hair, telling the story in her soft, but animated, voice. Perhaps it was the way Tete told the story that made it so special for me. Perhaps it was the catchy tune in the story, so typical of many Syrian folktales, that mesmerized me as it was repeated over and over.
He lives in Sde Boker—the field of the shepherd—a small communal settlement, from which, like the son of the lion cub his name denotes, he charges into the public limelight from time to time, causing controversy wherever he goes.
“And it had everything in it...my diaries, the stories from my writing classes, even stuff I didn’t know I’d written...everything I’d forgotten, abandoned or thrown out was there...everything...and it wasn’t -- I dunno -- it wasn’t really a book either...it was in...pieces, like, books falling apart out of a carton, maybe...but it was...beautiful...it made sense...”
A tad lightheaded from pork bun nitrites, I dared to venture out from the friendly confines of TST-East and crossed Chatham Road, pinning my fading hopes on a rabbit-warren of streets off Knutsford Terrace with an improbable cluster of bridal shops (don’t ask) that I had stumbled upon a few trips ago. And there, amid clutches of brides-to-be with their entourages, was a string of salons.
From the very beginning, Nadia Kalman’s The Cosmopolitans had me thinking about divides—generational and cultural—that occur in immigrant families. As may often happen within these families, a shared past binds the present and the future too loosely, creating awkward and sometimes comical moments between parents and their children.
Of the more than eighteen million patrons who come through the NYPL’s doors annually, 15, in particular, stand out. They are heavyweights of intellectualism, a team of scholars and writers, lured each year by the library’s profound atmosphere. They are the Fellows of the Dorothy and Lewis B. Cullman Center for Scholars and Writers, in the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building, the Library’s main research center at 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue.
The Ottomans were powerful and they had money to sponsor artists so people came from China, Persia, Iraq, and many different cultural centers. Istanbul was the new cultural center where patrons really took care of everything for their artists. If you were a scholar writing a book, or an artist, you had a free life as long as you did what you were doing.
When I was a child growing up in the Bahamas, my grandmother came to visit from Germany. One day, while we were building sandcastles on the beach, she paused to tell me about East Prussia – a place of great beauty where Trakehner horses pranced across dandelion meadows and elk herds swam in green rivers.
“Ost Preussen,” she said, with a soulful sigh.
Hearing the sadness in her voice, I glanced up sharply.