At the New Republic, Michael Eric Dyson traces the development of the “black digital intelligentsia.”
On the Harper’s blog this week, Art Winslow claimed to have discovered the new Thomas Pynchon—or rather, the old one, using a pseudonym to publish Cow Country, a long and until now unsung novel that came out earlier this year. But now the spoilsports at New York magazine’s Vulture blog have gone and asked Penguin, who said: “We are Thomas Pynchon’s publisher and this is not a book by Thomas Pynchon.”
Wayne Koestenbaum talked to Sarah Gerard about “sexualized formalist curiosity” and his forthcoming Pink Trance Notebooks. And about the pains of writing his Andy Warhol biography, because “I couldn’t make things up, and I had to go kind of in order.”
Pity the professional gossip: “No longer,” Erik Wemple notes, “do beat reporters covering politics, diplomacy and national security leave juicy trimmings for their resident gossip columnist; they write them up for themselves.”
Grace Jones’s memoir, I’ll Never Write My Memoirs, out later this month and excerpted in next week’s Time Out, sounds not to be missed.
Also worth reading: the Baffler piece on Amish romance novels.
In Interview magazine, Choire Sicha asks Ursula K. Le Guin about being a poet: “It really doesn’t seem that rewarding. Is that a terrible thing to say?” (Le Guin has some helpful thoughts to share, too.)