Tag Archives: Reviews

Literature, Reviews

‘The Restless Analyst’

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LITERARY REVIEW (April 1, 2025) by Peter Rose:

In 1904, Henry James decided to return to America. He was feeling isolated at Lamb House in Rye. In a letter to Grace Norton, he wrote: ‘The days depart and pass, laden somehow like processional camels – across the desert of one’s solitude.’ Since the flop of Guy Domville, his dreams of success as a dramatist had been dashed. The Wings of the Dove had been published in 1902, followed by The Ambassadors in 1903, in serial form. The Golden Bowl – written in little more than a year and, for many, his sovereign achievement – was almost finished. Now, after this awesome outpouring, he was ready to review his homeland, last visited in 1882.

James’s reasons for returning were complex, some obvious and professional, others psychological and obscure. Family drew him back, just as it had subtly hurried him on his way in 1875, when he left America, first for Paris, then for London. Planning his itinerary, James wrote to his nephew Harry: ‘I can’t tell you how I thank you for offering me your manly breast to hurl myself upon in the event of my alighting on the New York dock, four or five weeks hence, in abject and craven terror.’ (One can only imagine the tremulations this caused in young Harry’s manly breast.)

He also began work on what he pointedly called the New York Edition of his preferred writings. The commercial failure of this work, with its ruminative prefaces and startling omissions, led to years of clinical depression. In a letter to Morton Fullerton, one of his late passions, James wrote: ‘The port from which I set out was, I think, that of the essential loneliness of my life … This loneliness (since I mention it!) – what is it still but the deepest thing about one?’ For this noblest of modernists, it was the saddest confession.

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Politics, Reviews

‘W.G. Sebald And The Politics Of Melancholy’

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THE NEW REPUBLIC (March 31, 2025) by Colin Dickey:

W.G. Sebald’s premature death from a heart attack, in December 2001, at 57—months after the publication of his novel Austerlitz propelled him to the height of his literary fame—has left his readers wanting more, and ever since, his publishers have increasingly delved deeper into his oeuvre for posthumous releases. Six full-length books have already appeared in English since his death, and now, 23 years after his death, we have the seventh—and perhaps last: Silent Catastrophes: Essays.

Kafka, Sebald notes, recognized fundamentally that power is “parasitic rather than powerful.”

At first blush, the book risks feeling off-putting to the casual reader: Academic in tone, it focuses on a literary tradition often overlooked in America, featuring many writers who are largely unknown in English-speaking countries. But its focus on Austria—a crumbling empire that slowly but willingly descended into fascism as a means of trying to capture its former glory—means that Silent Catastrophes, unfortunately, is arriving at an apposite time. And the reader willing to wade through the academic style will soon find not only Sebald’s trademark concerns emerging but unexpected reflections on how we might navigate the end of empire and the rise of authoritarianism.

So much of Sebald’s work is rooted in the awareness that though memory and history are mercurial, often contradictory, and impossible to fix permanently, it is nonetheless vital to document and preserve it all, even the contradictions and confusions. For it is the job of the artist—melancholic though they may be—to sift among these contradictory pasts in search of possible futures that may yet be open to us.

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Physiology, Reviews, Science

Science: The Mysterious Flow Of Fluid In The Brain

QUANTA MAGAZINE (March 26, 2025) by Veronique Greenwood:

Incased in the skull, perched atop the spine, the brain has a carefully managed existence. It receives only certain nutrients, filtered through the blood-brain barrier; an elaborate system of protective membranes surrounds it. That privileged space contains a mystery. For more than a century, scientists have wondered: If it’s so hard for anything to get into the brain, how does waste get out?

What’s more, during NREM sleep norepinephrine levels change rhythmically. This neurotransmitter could help tie together their hypotheses — the physical movement of CSF through brain tissues and the “brainwashing” occurring during sleep.

The brain has one of the highest metabolisms of any organ in the body, and that process must yield by-products that need to be removed. In the rest of the body, blood vessels are shadowed by a system of lymphatic vessels. Molecules that have served their purpose in the blood move into these fluid-filled tubes and are swept away to the lymph nodes for processing. But blood vessels in the brain have no such outlet. Several hundred kilometers of them, all told, seem to thread their way through this dense, busily working tissue without a matching waste system.

However, the brain’s blood vessels are surrounded by open, fluid-filled spaces. In recent decades, the cerebrospinal fluid, or CSF, in those spaces has drawn a great deal of interest. “Maybe the CSF can be a highway, in a way, for the flow or exchange of different things within the brain,” said Steven Proulx, who studies the CSF system at the University of Bern.

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Veronique Greenwood is a science writer and essayist. Her work has appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Smithsonian, Discover, Aeon and other publications.

Book Reviews, Business, Economics, Reviews, Technology

‘It’s Time To Question The Relationship Between Technology & Capitalism’

The Mechanic and the Luddite book cover

LSE REVIEW OF BOOKS (March 24, 2025):

With the ongoing dismantling of the US administrative state by a handful of ill-informed programmers, I would like to declare the current moment a failure of tech criticism. For decades, academics in the social sciences and humanities have built a critical edifice that challenged the cultural hegemony propping up the US tech industry, an industry grounded in science fiction parables, speculative fiction, “rationalist” dreaming, and an endless stream of technological solutionism. We can now count “AI safety” as a new field of knowledge production about technology captured by industry interests. I do not attribute blame to tech critics for this state, but now is a good moment to stop and reflect: what are we doing? In being so caught up in cataloguing new horrors of the digital age, we have been unable to stop its worst excesses. We need a new way of thinking about that project, of how we catalogue the problems of technology and hope that corporate appeals or policymaking will address them.  

While there is plenty of tech criticism around, much of it is not comfortable explicitly labelling itself as anti-capitalist tout court.

In his new book, The Mechanic and the Luddite, Jathan Sadowski provides a model of “ruthless criticism” that might meet that requirement. As he explains, many academics have created criticism isolated from the source of its complaints: “Too much of the tech criticism that exists today is happy to ignore, if not remain ignorant of, the links between technology and capitalism. We can see this anodyne style in the sudden burst of work on “AI ethics,” which is content with offering superficial tweaks to, say, the training data for an algorithm without ever challenging how that algorithm will be used or why it should exist at all” (24). In contrast, he calls for more materialist analysis of technology and the internet – that is, Marxism.  

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The Mechanic and the Luddite: A Ruthless Criticism of Technology and Capitalism. Jathan Sadowski. University of California Press. 2025.

Jathan Sadowski’s The Mechanic and the Luddite critiques technology’s entanglement with capitalism, advocating for “ruthless criticism” of this dual system in order to dismantle it. Sadowski’s forthright materialist approach and argument for actionable, anti-capitalist tech critique make the book an original and vital read for our times, writes Sam DiBella.

Book Reviews, Philosophy, Reviews

Review: ‘Hope, Despair And Retreat In An Unquiet Age’

TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT (March 13, 2025):

Three years before he vowed, in “Carrion Comfort”, not to feast on despair, the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins grieved the physical decay of growing old: “And wisdom is early to despair: / Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done / … So be beginning, be beginning to despair”. We age, decline and die, like everyone we love.

Yet despair is not, to put it mildly, a popular stance. In his “Sonnets of Desolation”, Hopkins fought against it; and the poem that bids us despair was paired with verse consoled by “beauty’s self and beauty’s giver”, God. Forced to choose between optimism and pessimism, hope and despair, the well-adjusted opt for optimistic hope.

PESSIMISM, QUIETISM AND NATURE AS REFUGE by David E. Cooper

HOPEFUL PESSIMISM by Mara van der Lugt

Two recent books take issue with this upbeat orientation. Both defend pessimism, though to very different ends. Their arguments are timely. The past ten years have made it hard to be optimistic about humanity. We’ve squandered our best chance to confront the coming climate chaos – storms, droughts and famines that will mean suffering on a massive scale – and the looming crises of forced migration and resource scarcity have spawned reactionary nationalism, not solidarity. In the US, democracy is under threat. The damage will be difficult to repair: it’s easier to wreck trust and infrastructure than to build them up.

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Arts & Literature, Reviews

‘Rembrandt And Literature’ (Review)

LOS ANGELES REVIEW OF BOOKS (LARB):

ALTHOUGH ONE CAN never get enough of Vermeer or van Gogh, a regrettable consequence of this current age of blockbuster art exhibitions is that more and more great artists are being viewed in isolation from each other. Turning the 18th-century notion of the singular genius into a marketing ploy, museums around the world present their subjects as rebels, outcasts, and troublemakers who operated outside time and space, when all of them were, in fact, closely connected with—and creatively indebted to—their culture and time period.

It is refreshing, then, to stumble upon a show like Impulse Rembrandt: Teacher, Strategist, Bestseller (2024–25) at the Leipzig Museum of Fine Arts in Germany, whose accompanying English-language catalog of critical essays plugs the most revered of the Dutch masters back into the ecosystem that influenced him as much as he influenced it.

Born in Leiden to a well-to-do miller in 1606, Rembrandt in early youth began to draft sketches of the Dutch countryside and portraits of his Protestant mother, who instilled in him a lifelong reverence for Christian mythology. In his teens, he apprenticed first with Jacob Isaacszoon van Swanenburg, a history painter freshly returned from Italy, then with Pieter Lastman, who also taught Jan Lievens. At 22, Rembrandt began taking on students of his own, many of whom, including Ferdinand Bol, Gerard Dou, and Carel Fabritius, became successful painters in their own right. Contrary to popular belief, writes the head of paintings and sculpture at Leipzig Museum, Jan Nicolaisen, in the exhibition catalog, these students—some as young as 14 when they first appeared at Rembrandt’s stately house and studio on Amsterdam’s Jodenbreestraat—didn’t spend their time completing Rembrandt’s masterpieces so much as copying them, adopting his style and sensibilities as their own. Concerned more with light and emotion than idealized forms, and increasingly painting in loose, expressive strokes, Rembrandt has been deservedly called one of the first “modern” painters, his well-documented influence running from his immediate disciples to Paul Cézanne, Pablo Picasso, and Salvador Dalí.

By and large, the development of 17th-century Dutch literature followed the development of 17th-century Dutch painting, Amsterdam’s writers and poets moving away from the dominant, classical style of their French neighbors in much the same way Rembrandt looked beyond the masters of the Italian Renaissance. 

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It is, in light of this conclusion, rather fitting that both academic and literary treatments of Rembrandt have slowly moved beyond the one-sided interpretations of the past, viewing him neither as a nuisance—as the classicists and Victorians did—nor as a Romantic genius, but rather as a man of unresolvable contradiction, a hungry miller’s boy who bit off more than he could chew. Possessed of both innate talent and acquired skill, he was equally sensible to corporeal and aesthetic pleasures, and willing to change and develop in response to both his surroundings and his own better judgment. A best-seller indeed.

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Tim Brinkhof is a Dutch journalist and researcher based in the United States. He studied history and literature at New York University and has written for Vox, Vulture, Slate, Esquire, Jacobin, GQ, New Lines Magazine, and more.

Book Reviews, History, Reviews

Reviews: ‘The Art Of Walking In London’

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS (February 13, 2025): When, in his 1716 poem Trivia: or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London, John Gay announced he would instruct his readers on “How to walk clean by Day, and safe by Night”, he firmly positioned his account between two different modes of representing the city. Like Ned Ward’s The London Spy, Gay’s poem acknowledges the chaotic energy – and the dirt and odours – the pedestrian is likely to encounter. At the same time, it offers an account of good conduct and urban sociability like that found in Addison and Steele’s Tatler and Spectator, albeit adapted to the busy streets of the commercial city. In so doing, Gay’s generically playful poem – which borrows from epic, georgic, and pastoral to produce a commentary on modern urban life – raises fascinating and still pertinent questions about what it means to be a walker of the city’s streets.

Taking its cue from Trivia, my book The Art of Walking in London: Representing the Eighteenth-Century City, 1700-1830 considers what representations of pedestrianism can tell us about how the metropolis was imagined and experienced – by writers and artists, visitors and inhabitants – in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. In the popular imagination, the idea of eighteenth-century London evokes a Hogarthian underworld of dirty streets, daring pickpockets, and chaotic scenes in which new arrivals trace well-worn routes to poverty and prostitution, criminality and death. This image of eighteenth-century London as dark and dangerous has helped to shape a common misconception that only criminals and the poor walked the streets, while Romantic-period poems like William Blake’s “London” and Book VII of William Wordsworth’s The Prelude suggest that the early nineteenth-century was defined by a sense of alienation, as captured in the latter’s pronouncement that “‘The face of every one / That passes by me is a mystery’”.

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Arts & Literature, Humanities, Reviews

Humanities & Literature: ‘Fooled By Language’

FRONTLINE (February 12, 2025): In his incisive 1946 essay “Politics and the English Language”, George Orwell performs a brilliant autopsy on the art and craft of writing and communication. He focusses on how and what language manifests—or rather, fails to manifest—in political discourse. The master satirist, never one to mince words (though he’d be the first to appreciate the irony of that cliché), dissects the tendency of political language to change straightforward ideas into bloated, pretentious prose that obscures rather than enlightens.

Towards the end of this long essay lies a powerful statement: “Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable”. Clearly, Orwell was talking about how politicians and other public figures twist words to hide ugly truths. When leaders want to justify terrible or unpleasant actions, they turn to a vague, fancy vocabulary. Instead of saying “we killed civilians”, they might say, “collateral damage occurred during military operations”. This kind of cloudy language makes it harder for people to understand what really happened or will happen.

Language shapes perception. It defines how we see the world and the forces that power it. In an ideal scenario, words like “development”, “reform”, and “progress” should inspire optimism, suggesting a march towards a better future. But in practice, these terms become euphemisms for destruction. Beneath their hopeful facades, they have hidden environmental devastation, the displacement of indigenous communities, and the widening gap between the rich and the poor. If we strip away their idealistic veneer, we uncover a history of exploitation and loss—one that continues to this day.

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Magazines, Politics, Reviews

‘How Progressives Froze The American Dream’

THE ATLANTIC MAGAZINE (February 10, 2025): The idea that people should be able to choose their own communities—instead of being stuck where they are born—is a distinctly American innovation. It is the foundation for the country’s prosperity and democracy, and it just may be America’s most profound contribution to the world.

No society has ever been as mobile as the United States once was. No society has even come close. In the 19th century, the heyday of American mobility, roughly a third of all Americans changed addresses each year. European visitors were astonished, and more than slightly appalled. The American “is devoured with a passion for locomotion,” the French writer Michel Chevalier observed in 1835; “he cannot stay in one place.” Americans moved far more often, over longer distances, and to greater advantage than did people in the lands from which they had come. They understood this as the key to their national character, the thing that made their country distinctive. “We are a migratory people and we flourish best when we make an occasional change of base,” one 19th-century newspaper explained. “We have cut loose from the old styles of human vegetation, the former method, of sticking like an oyster to one spot through numberless succeeding generations,” wrote another.

As the 19th century turned into the 20th, as two world wars passed, as the Baby Boom began, Americans kept on moving. And as Americans moved around, they moved up. They broke away from stultifying social hierarchies, depleted farmland, declining towns, dead-end jobs. If the first move didn’t work out, they could always see a more promising destination beckoning them onward.

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This article is adapted from Yoni Appelbaum’s new book, Stuck: How the Privileged and the Propertied Broke the Engine of American Opportunity. It appears in the March 2025 print edition with the headline “Stuck In Place.”

Magazines, Publishing, Reviews

‘The Editorial Battles That Made The New Yorker’

THE NEW YORKER MAGAZINE (February 10, 2025): Harold Wallace Ross, who founded The New Yorker a century ago, had a rule that no one should ever write about writers, because writers are boring, except to other writers, and he figured the same was true about editors—only it was more true, because no one should even know an editor’s name. That didn’t stop William Shawn, who became the editor of the magazine after Ross’s death, in 1951, from naming one of his kids Wallace, for Ross. It didn’t stop Ann Beattie from naming her car Roger, for her New Yorker editor, Roger Angell. And for all I know there are Chihuahuas and nieces and motorcycles at large named Bob Gottlieb, the magazine’s editor from 1987 to 1992; Lady Evans, the titled name of Tina Brown, its editor from 1992 to 1998; and D.R., for David Remnick, its editor since then. (I once had a tuxedo cat named Shaun, with a “u,” but that came from “Finnegans Wake” and doesn’t count.)

Most editors remain unsung. To be unknown is, ordinarily, to be underestimated. “The only great argument I have against writers, generally speaking, is that many of them deny the function of an editor, and I claim editors are important,” Ross once wrote. For him, editors were worth more than writers in the way that a great batting coach was worth more than a great batter. “Writers are a dime a dozen,” Ross told James Thurber. “What I want is an editor.” Writers were children; editors were adults. “I can’t find editors,” Ross fumed. “Nobody grows up.” (The magazine’s editorial director, Henry Finder, once said of Remnick, “I think he regards the editor’s job as being not crazy,” while, on the other hand, “the writer’s prerogative is to be, perhaps, a little crazy.”) Ross also found it useful—and this was a pretty clever trick—to tell writers who balked at being edited that the more they argued with an editor, the less worthy they were of being published. “The worse the writer is, the more argument; that is the rule,” he informed one very quarrelsome contributor. Stating this rule was an exceptionally effective way of getting a writer to pipe down. Then, too: it happens to be true. (I promise that my editor did not write that last sentence—he doesn’t even agree with it.)

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