Christopher Bray

Isherwood's overflowing diaries are in need of a thorough edit.

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IN 1962, ALMOST TWENTY years after the lyricist Lorenz Hart’s death, his melodist partner Richard Rodgers told Diahann Carroll that “you can’t imagine how wonderful it feels to have written this score and not have to search all over the globe for that little fag.” Ouch. And yet, as Gary Marmorstein’s thoroughgoing—if occasionally conjectural—biography makes clear, Hart seems to have thought even less of himself than Rodgers did.

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"No poetry after Auschwitz,” said Adorno. Except for Chaplin—who said that he wouldn’t have made The Great Dictator had he known about the Holocaust—f

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You love Henry Mancini. You might not know it but you do. If you have ever popped your lips through the opening bars of the theme to The Pink Panther

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In The Fear Index, Robert Harris offers his take on the financial crisis that has engulfed the developed world. Unfortnately, this is not Harris’s bes

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The Call to Order

One closes this book feeling more than a little mentally repelled. Nobody who spends a goodly part of their leisure-time walking the English landscape

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Paul Trynka, whose life of David Bowie, fascinating though it is on the quotidian detail of his young life, doesn’t begin to account for its subject’s

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