Christopher Hitchens once said that it took decades for him to gather enough confidence (“dare the attempt”) to write on Nabokov, and one can hardly blame him (the nice little essay he ended up giving us is a worthy read nonetheless). I have (perhaps unfortunately) taken significantly less time, not simply because my opinion of myself verges on the mountainous, but because I am quite sure that with the amount of literature already existing on the man I won’t really be saying anything new. A comforting thought.

“The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.”

This famous phrase, besides serving the role of glorious opener to Nabokov’s brilliant autobiography Speak, Memory, is a perfectly worded insight into the writer’s mind… one that could’ve only been written by him, in fact. It becomes...

Consider, if you will, a world where this year’s Oscars rewarded Captain America: Winter Soldier and Guardians of the Galaxy as the best movies, and the nominees – and perhaps even winners – for best acting categories were composed of performers like Chris Evans and Mark Wahlberg. You would think there’s something wrong, wouldn’t you? Not that there is anything particularly awful with them (I personally really enjoyed Guardians), but one can hardly say that Chris and Mark’s performances this year were worthy of the highest praise, enjoyable as they may have been. No, those honors should justly be reserved for an artistry on the level of Boyhood or Birdman, and their respective casts.

And yet, ladies and gentleman, it will perhaps come as no surprise to you that the Oscars’ musical equivalent (in fame anyway) constantly reserves its best prizes for popular, blockbuster musicians over...

It is a working theory of mine that there can only be a maximum of three or four great Brooklyn bands at all times. By the force of things, it seems that as the various decrepit venues composing our musical scene bear witness to exciting new acts, so too must they see older, once glorious groups drive their art to piffle. The reverse is also true, and oftentimes both ignominious plunges and magnificent comebacks have been heralded by a change of name – the obvious success here being Mr. Twin Sister and their newly alliterative moniker. One of them, however, has so far managed to levitate above all this nonsense and maintain a worthy (to say the least) output for the past five years (or so?). Fortunately for us, they – Ava Luna – have recently released a new song, in addition to announcing a new album, failing yet again to let us down. Oh but how could they?

Nervous? Nah, cool as ice...

It finally happened. After years of painful literary wandering I have at last come across a book that truly changes lives. Not quite as sprawling as Ulysses, far less risqué than Lolita, yet still better written than Gravity’s Rainbow – this particular number outdoes all in one lovely aspect: use. If you too ever found yourself wondering what to answer when an attractive Italian and aspiring bureaucrat asks: “What, if anything, is the point to art?”, then this is what you’ve always wanted: Everyday Drinking, by the venerable Kingsley Amis.

Forget Oscar Wilde’s “it is Art, and Art only that reveals us to ourselves”, just as you can Théophile Gautier of “art for art’s sake” fame (amongst other things), or even the obvious realization that art is the only worthwhile way we have of describing emotion, because here’s a much more tangible point: it can help you with the drink (and not the...

While recent news might have overshadowed it, last December’s triumphant release of a 500-page sneak peak on the Senate intelligence committee’s CIA torture report still deserves interest – reminding of a few of the agency’s past glories. Whether or not the CIA did in this case mislead the Bush administration (which seems inprobable, considering Dick Cheney’s notorious distrust of the agency), I am sure a look at the following three grim cases will put this latest episode into perspective – namely, that it neatly follows three decades of CIA history as the executive branch’s most sinister and incompetent pet. A joyous read, undoubtedly.

1970: Chile

In September 1970, despite the CIA’s spending close to half a million dollars in anti-socialist propaganda, Salvador Allende of the left-wing Popular Unity party was democratically elected to be Chile’s 29th president. By then, the country...

The recent Slate review of Selma, a new film on the Civil Rights movement (and in particular the landmark Selma to Montgomery marches), attacks those critics who dare mention the movie’s occasional historical inaccuracies. It claims that these persons (none of them cinema reviewers, it should be noted) are collectively missing the point, on the grounds that Selma “isn’t a documentary or even dramatized history” – “it is a film based on historical accounts, and like all films of its genre, it has a loose relationship to actual history”. A valid argument, surely, but one that merits closer attention.

Apparently the movie doesn’t really do justice to president Johnson, though to be honest I’m not sure he ever did either.

It is obvious, for one, that a work doesn’t have to be anchored in reality to be considered art. Realism, after all, is only one part of cinema, as it is of say, the...

Your heart was in the right place though… I think?

There have been, coming out here and there in the American press (and in others, I would guess, though I can’t be bothered to learn the languages yet) increasing reports that the recently struck satirical mag Charlie Hebdo was just as racist and bigoted as the ignorant fringes of French society. That said, being fortunately as well versed myself in the native tongue as any Parisian could hope to be, I should add that those allegations are untrue. In fact, the paper’s editorial line was very much against such cheap thinking, following in the commendable footsteps of the European far-left (albeit with a bit more humor) – as I’ve said before here.

Their first Mohammed depiction, published in 2005 in support of the Danish cartoons. He says: “It’s tough to be loved by idiots…”

It would seem the journalists concerned have not been left...

The atrocities committed against Charlie Hebdo were accomplished around eleven thirty this morning, in northeast Paris, less than a half hour walk from where my parents live, and where my earliest childhood memories were made. Indeed, the astute among you will have realized that I am – for all intents and purposes – French, and thus particularly liable to dishing out opinions, wanted or not, on a topic such as this.

First and foremost, I feel it is a necessity to start this off with an anticipated response to apologists, who will undoubtedly come creeping out into the limelight soon enough (and who can already be heard practicing their necrotic dances on certain radio stations in the City of Light – where I am currently located). As a satirical magazine, Charlie Hebdo issued from one of the greater traditions of the French Republic, that of the constant belittling of obscurantist...

What better to inaugurate an angry young man’s saucy entry into the blogosphere, but by the shunning of ugly questions for a… well, prettier lot?

David Bowie: an artist, cliché, and vast collection of colorful pants.
Today, pop culture has happily engulfed the last two and added them to its harrowing repertoire, leaving of Mr. Jones only the first, to be used as consolation prize to denuded purists and clueless hipsters everywhere. But really, how many modern popstars have claimed, from within their made-up confines, to be inspired by Ziggy Stardust, the Thin White Duke, or any of his musically-inclined fashion statements? Unfortunately the question is rhetorical (but the answer isn’t, and it’s a lot), yet it remains a fact that any musician interested in crafting an image of some daring must pay homage to the Dame.

Conveniently enough, these – the Lady Gagas and Empires of the Sun...