To care about the state and quality of writing today is to scream into a void while knowing that the void does nothing but laugh.

If talking about Hitler is the endpoint and forfeit of all political arguments, then references to Nuremberg are the downfall of all legal arguments.

A few years ago in Paris I heard a German man yell at his family in Italian.

Somewhere in the black and white portion of my mind is a memory that I occasionally question.

In the opening of Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest, we hear a line with a bit of context underneath its wit.

The first hints of dawn come with a soft violet color.

Hermann Hesse’s 1919 novel Demian.

Dealing with Criticism as Stephen Dedalus.

The most famous white fence in literature requires a new bookshelf.

An unfinished project is a taunt to danger.

A distant siren in the night.

Artistic journeys don’t have destinations.

Iris Murdoch grips her pen a tad firmer than most writers.

The spot where there begins because here has ended.

How does distance affect our perception of time?

You can hear her voice—a bit breathless, direct, consumed by the story.

In the São Paulo summer, the air is salty and thick and the rains are always just minutes away.

For an unforgettable account of foreign reporting, we need to jump back nearly a century.

Whenever a sentence flows across the page with verve and punch and spice, there’s something behind the words that’s akin to magic.

Is it possible to eradicate all the bad words?