Rebecca Walker Blog

Begin again.

rebecca — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 22:38:01 -0500

Topography by Sharon Olds

rebecca — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 02:24:28 -0500

After we flew across the country we
got in bed, laid our bodies
delicately together, like maps laid
face to face, East to West, my
San Francisco against your New York, your
Fire Island against my Sonoma, my
New Orleans deep in your Texas, your Idaho
bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas
burning against your Kansas your Kansas
burning against my Kansas, your Eastern
Standard Time pressing into my
Pacific Time, my Mountain Time
beating against your Central Time, your
sun rising swiftly from the right my

Redux: A Movable Feast

rebecca — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 02:38:48 -0500

I spent some time today reading Hemingway's gorgeous memoir, A Movable Feast. I breezed through it in college, really appreciating it now.

A particularly lovely paragraph:

Interview with Tish Pearlman for Out of Bounds Radio

rebecca — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 17:31:04 -0500

Nice interview with Tish Pearlman.

Publishers Move to Delay eBook Releases

rebecca — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 16:20:14 -0500

Interesting development, reported in Publisher's Lunch today:

Big Publishers Move to Broad Delay of eBook Releases

Returning to Lorrie Moore.

rebecca — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 01:05:18 -0500

What Is Seized

In the wedding photos they wear white against the murky dark of trees. They are thin and elegant. They have placid smiles. The mouth of the father of the bride remains in a short, straight line. I don't know who took these pictures. I suppose they are lies of sorts, revealing by omission, by indirection, by clues such as shoes and clouds. But they tell a truth, the only way lies can. The way only lies can.

A Soldier of Love

rebecca — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 05:33:35 -0500

Listen.

Madagascar

rebecca — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 04:07:42 -0500

Bernard Descamps. View the gallery.

Another poem.

rebecca — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 17:44:26 -0500

Be Near Me

Faiz Ahmed Faiz
Translated by Naomi Lazard

My humble translation of Limites, by Borges

rebecca — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 15:36:09 -0500

Limits

There is a line of Verlaine I will never remember

There is another street I can no longer walk down

There is a face in the mirror I have seen for the very last time

There is a door that is closed until the end of the world.

Among the books of my library (I am seeing them now)

There are some that will never be read.

This summer I will be fifty:

Death consumes me, constantly.

---Jorge Luis Borges

Madame Chiang Kai Shek and Eleanor Roosevelt

rebecca — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 02:02:56 -0500

The Times says the book is awful, but isn't the photo sublime. The turn of the ankle, the rich blue velvet and inscrutable face. The way the eye is drawn to Madame Chiang Kai, how she gives nothing but takes everything. Then Eleanor's distinct blend of American naivete, grit, and optimism.

Addendum: From the review in today's NYT:

Design, design, designers

rebecca — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 05:43:08 -0400

Nice work from young designer Steph Walker.

Does the Brain Like E-books?

rebecca — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 17:29:00 -0400

Really appreciate this series of perspectives from the Times on digital vs analog reading.

I especially resonated with this one by Maryanne Wolf, John DiBiaggio Professor in the Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development at Tufts, and the author of “Proust and the Squid: The Story and Science of the Reading Brain.”

Art + Life according to Chekhov

rebecca — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 03:54:09 -0400

"Art, especially the stage, is an area where it is impossible to walk without stumbling. There are in store for you many unsuccessful days and whole unsuccessful seasons: there will be great misunderstandings and deep disappointments…you must be prepared for all this, expect it and nevertheless, stubbornly, fanatically follow your own way.

Anton Chekhov

Alexander Pushkin, Afro-Russian brother and father of Russian letters

rebecca — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 03:33:34 -0400

"Years later, when Pushkin became famous, one teacher grumbled: “What’s all this fuss about Pushkin? He was a scamp—nothing more!” Engelgardt, the Lycée headmaster, took an even stronger dislike to his most famous pupil. His school report in 1816: