The Washington Post, in grave financial trouble, was bought by a very wealthy man whose biographer called him “an energetic young tycoon.”1 Highly successful as a banker and Wall Street investor, the new publisher had never before worked at a newspap
Dissident or Informant? The Murky Memory of Christa Wolf
March 07, 2013
In 1992, the Stasi revealed that Christa Wolf had helped them out. She had no memory of having written a report for them.
Was That the Way It Was?
July 23, 2012
The old regime of broadcast journalism is now passing, or has passed. The average age of a TV network news viewer is over sixty. We are now about two
A Mere Jonah
May 07, 2012
Frederick Turner gives us an informative sketch for a bildungsromanabout how Miller re-made himself as a writer, transforming himself from poetaster t
February 15, 2012
In his memoir, Bill Zimmerman contributes his own vivid tableaux to the annals of 1960s action sequences, and makes plain that they were sequences in
In the Name of the Father: How College Sports Came To Be Above the Law
November 14, 2011
The sports journalist Michael Weinreb, who grew up in State College, Pennsylvania and went to school at Penn State, where his father was a chemistry professor, last week cited an article on the front page of his old college newspaper. In it were recorded the laments of Andrew Hanselman, a senior marketing major at the school. "Being accepted to Penn State felt like a family,” Hanselman said, “and Joe Paterno was the father." It is a sentimental quote, but also a revealing one. It’s important, in fact, to stare hard at the feeling articulated by young Mr.
The Grand Programme
October 19, 2011
A book on why to read another book is, you might think, redundant, especially when there are so many predecessors that illuminate Moby-Dick, and by no
A Eulogy for Carl Oglesby, the Man Who Inspired the New Left and Was Then Tossed Overboard
September 17, 2011
In 1965, when Carl Oglesby threw himself into the New Left—“the movement” was the more intimate term, meaning life-force, energy, motion—he was a 30-year-old paterfamilias with a wife and three small children, living in a nice little Ann Arbor house on (he relished the memory) Sunnyside Street, making a solid living as a technical editor-writer for a military-industrial think-tank called Bendix. He golfed, drove a snappy little sports car, wrote plays, and smoked good dope—a damn fine life for the son of an Akron rubber worker and the grandson of a coal miner.