Now that I’ve reached the end of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Idiot (this edition translated by Richard P...

Could Seymour Krim make a comeback? Could a little-known holdover from the beat generation, a writer...

I am finished with myself, with my sacrifices and my pity, with what chains me. I am going to make a...

I've spent months with the writings of Anaïs Nin collected in this book, reading much as she might h...

But a certain dullness of mind, it seems, is almost a necessary quality, if not of every active man,...

Vivian Gornick's book on the art of essay writing was bound to get good marks from me, if only for i...

It would seem convenient, career-wise, for George Saunders to have found a novel in him after the su...

None of it was real; nothing was real. Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. The...

Action: A Book About Sex is the cool guy/gal you hooked up with in high school or college who was wa...

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov doesn't lend itself to summary, it throws a lot at the ...