One has to have a subscription to read John Witte's poem "Snails" in last week's New Yorker, but seek it if you can. (Oh, subscribe already.) It's so difficult to write about so-called intimate things like kissing without crossing the line into cornball, but Witte does it confidently and well. As Shakespeare once said, 'by the book.'
Zadie Smith's essay on Katherine Hepburn said everything exactly right. (Full text here!) Every once in a while Smith lets herself seep into sentiment but always with due thought and solid reason. I love that about her.
This year's clear contender for 'summer cocktail' has me convinced of it's necessity, and I realize how outlandishly pretentious that sounds. Who wants to join me? Negroni's? A garden somewhere in Brooklyn? Let's do it.
Sam Lipsyte is back with this week's NYer fiction! I have his book sitting here next to me, on my nightstand, awaiting my time and energy. Soon, Sam, I promise.
Did you all see these Whale prints?! Haunting.
And do you follow @NatGeoSociety on Twitter? No? You should.
This was lovely.
This song reentered my life this week for no apparent reason and make me ache for another sticky summer. Alison forced it one upon me around this time last year and I'll always love it for that reason. So ready for the weather to shift for real.