From the stacks

Three grades of evil can be discerned in the queer world of verbal transmigration.

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'A mis­placed chair put her out, and her imagination was at home upon volcanic-looking hills!' Appraising Charlotte Brontë's understated brilliance.

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But she still got a lot of pleasure out of it.

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Terse, exacting, and unflinching, Louise Bogan was one of the best-known poets of the first half of the twentieth century, as well as a prolific literary critic—The New Yorker’s on-staff poetry reviewer for 38 years and a regular contributor to The New Republic. She was also something of a model for female writers who despised any assumption of softness owing to their sex.

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Those were the days of patrons and jobs, pocket-boroughs and sinecures; they were the days, too, of vigorous bold living, torrential talk, and splendid hospitality...

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Thoughts on Peace in an Air Raid

Virginia Woolf captures the conscience of a war-torn England

Virginia Woolf captures the conscience of a war-torn England

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THERE was a miracle in Whitman's life; we can find no other word for it. In his thirty-seventh year, the local politician and printer and failed editor suddenly be­came a world poet. No long apprenticeship; no process of growth that we can trace from year to year in his published work; not even much early promise: the poet materializes like a shape from the depths.

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Her provincialism gave her a strange freedom. 

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On Einstein's birthday, a look at his life.

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On what would have been his 92nd birthday, a look back at Kerouac's legacy.

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