Jane Austen

At what point does a work of supposed literary merit simply become fan fiction?

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Was Jane Austen a Game Theorist? Author Michael Suk-Young Chwe responds to William Deresiewicz's review of Jane Austen, Game Theorist. 

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No, Jane Austen Was Not a Game Theorist

Using science to explain art is a good way to butcher both

Proust was a neuroscientist. Jane Austen was a game theorist. Dickens was a gastroenterologist. Enough with the using science to explain art.

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Virginia Woolf thought Austen had six more novels left to write.

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Everybody's crazy about Jane.

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What Jane Austen Would Have Thought About the Kardashians

Pretension remains the greatest social crime—and authenticity the greatest virtue.

She loved authenticity, chided pretension, and may well have loved them.

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Ten Other Posthumously Discovered Novels

Salinger isn't the only one

If the reports are true, and J.D. Salinger’s estate is about to release five never-before-seen novels by the famously reclusive author, the literary world may be set to receive its biggest posthumous bounty since Emily Dickinson’s sister happened upon that trunk full of poems. As many have long suspected, Salinger may soon join the long, illustrious line of novelists’ whose work continues to emerge long after they depart this world.

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"Perhaps Culture is Now the Counterculture"

A Defense of the Humanities

On May 19, New Republic literary editor Leon Wieseltier spoke at the commencement ceremony of Brandeis University, addressing the graduates as "fellow humanists." Here is a text of his talk.

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“IT WAS CALAMITOUS for me. I feel a deep, deep grief.” Sir V.S. Naipaul is talking about his dead cat. We are sitting in the spacious two-story London flat in Kensington where the author and his welcoming second wife, Nadira, stay when they are not at their Wiltshire country residence. “Now that Augustus has died, I want to spend more time in London,” he continues, slowly picking at the meal Nadira has provided. “It is too painful to be [in Wiltshire]. I think of Augustus. He was the sum of my experiences.

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  “IT WAS CALAMITOUS for me. I feel a deep, deep grief.” Sir V.S. Naipaul is talking about his dead cat. We are sitting in the spacious two-story London flat in Kensington where the author and his welcoming second wife, Nadira, stay when they are not at their Wiltshire country residence. “Now that Augustus has died, I want to spend more time in London,” he continues, slowly picking at the meal Nadira has provided. “It is too painful to be [in Wiltshire]. I think of Augustus. He was the sum of my experiences.

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