Tags » Don DeLillo

On Being a Mature Student

After last week’s post on word counts, my friend J emailed me. She was thinking about ways she could suggest using the idea of word races to the students she supports. 912 more words


"People came up against themselves"

Even more depressing than the nature of a given quest was the likely result. Whether people searched for an object of some kind, or inner occasion, or answer, or state of being, it was almost always disappointing. 38 more words


Here I was complaining...

about the world being too depressing.

And then a friend posted this article reviewing Taylor Swift’s new song, White Noise. Pure genius. And I felt my blood being to move again. 69 more words


Anticipating Dylan's "The Basement Tapes Complete": An Essay

The New York Times put on its front page this week the news that Orson Welles’ final film will at long last make it to the silver screen.  2,091 more words


Nine for the Price of One : David Mitchell - "Ghostwritten"

“We’re all ghostwriters, my boy. And it’s not just our
memories. Our actions, too. We all think we’re in control of our own lives, but really they’re pre-ghostwritten by forces around us.” 317 more words

Fantasy/ Sci-Fi

Real Life Rock Top 10 (11/4/2002)

1. Sam McGee, “Railroad Blues,” from the anthology Classic Mountain Songs (Smithsonian Folkways)
McGee (1894-1975) played guitar with Uncle Dave Macon in the 1920s, with Fiddlin’ Arthur Smith in the ’30s and ’60s; in this 1964 recording he blows holes through the idea of “country music,” the “breakdown,” the “guitar solo.” Long, thin notes stretch into the air until you think you can’t hear them anymore, but you can; bass strings swoop down to rescue the melody from the silences that are almost left behind. 1,113 more words

Greil Marcus

twirl the dials to hunt for jazz

“I would twirl the dials to hunt for jazz, and with luck I’d catch a scrap of catatonic Monk, or Sun Ra colliding with anti-matter, and some note would pin together pieces of the spreading night and it would all make sense for a moment, the mad harmonics bringing most of what was sane to those who ran with death, and we would head into the gulf of early light with that black music driving over me and I would feel a stranger in my love of it, for I did not run with anything.”

— Don DeLillo, Americana