A Moving House of Mourning
How gesture and movement helped make the Ferguson protests into a living memorial.
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By Leah Falk
How gesture and movement helped make the Ferguson protests into a living memorial.
race
What We Know Now
When we encounter images of the dead, how does looking proceed? It might begin with mourning, a mourning that clouds the image the way the oils on human skin cloud glass, because we know what comes after the image.
By Leah Falk
When we encounter images of the dead, how does looking proceed? It might begin with mourning, a mourning that clouds the image the way the oils on human skin cloud glass, because we know what comes after the image.
This Is Hard For Me To Say
Some recent nonfiction begs for a return to the discussion of how we define difficulty.
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By Leah Falk
Some recent nonfiction begs for a return to the discussion of how we define difficulty.
The Riches of Content
by Zoe Tuck
…each writer points back outward, whether that is towards people, books, community, or place. To follow these generous clues is to experience another kind of plenty.
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By Zoe Tuck
by Zoe Tuck
…each writer points back outward, whether that is towards people, books, community, or place. To follow these generous clues is to experience another kind of plenty.
“The Collective,” Divided: A Review
*Lillian Li*
Don Lee’s prose is not pretty, or even particularly effortless in his novel. He tends towards wordy, didactic passages and heavy-handed, eye-rolling dialogue—one racist bar customer calls Eric a “Chinese wonton” (297). His characters remain characters, never fully embodying the human beings they wish to represent, and many seem to step in only to move the plot along or provoke an epiphany from the myopic narrator. But in failing to write movingly about ethnicity and/in art, Lee has also managed to succeed.
“The Collective,” Divided: A Review Read More »
By Lillian Li
*Lillian Li*
Don Lee’s prose is not pretty, or even particularly effortless in his novel. He tends towards wordy, didactic passages and heavy-handed, eye-rolling dialogue—one racist bar customer calls Eric a “Chinese wonton” (297). His characters remain characters, never fully embodying the human beings they wish to represent, and many seem to step in only to move the plot along or provoke an epiphany from the myopic narrator. But in failing to write movingly about ethnicity and/in art, Lee has also managed to succeed.
