A gay-owned Virgia rtrant is a dispute wh s neighbors - Washgton Post

*BEAR-MAGAZINE.COM* QUEER READING OF FIGHT CLUB

Comment on this story</tle><path d="M14 14V2H2v9.47h8.18L12.43 13ZM3 10.52V3h10v9.23l-2.5-1.66Z"></path></svg></button><span aria-hidn="te" class="wpds-c-fBEbFG">Comment</span><span class="wpds-c-fOvfhP wpds-c-fOvfhP-kshkDy-isCommentType-te none" aria-hidn="te"><span class="ment-unt font-xxxxs sc-ral-unt"><span></span></span></span></div></div></div></div></div><div class="teaser-ntent grid-center"><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null"><i>In Staff Picks, Book World edors and wrers share what they’ve been readg off the clock. We hope you’ll be spurred to read some of the books, and turn, we’d love to know what you’ve enjoyed lately so we n add to our pil.</i></p></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div class="db dn-ns mr-neg-gutter ml-neg-gutter mb-md hi-for-prt" data-qa="subscribe-promo"><div data-orientatn="horizontal" role="separator" class="wpds-c-dbVHzF wpds-c-dbVHzF-hDkAcj-variant-flt"></div><a class="pt-sm pb-sm flex ems-center bold font-xxxs font-xxs-ns jtify-center" href=" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener" style="lor:#166dfc;borr:none"><svg class="ntent-box" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" xmlns=" aria-hidn="te" focable="false" role="img"><tle>Wp</tle><path d="M11.055 8.728l-1.018-1.019-.782.782v6.292l1.782 1.564.018-.019v-7.6zm-4.11.236L5.674 7.71l-.836.855v6.237l1.545 1.327.564-.636V8.964zm2.656 9.074l-2.528-2.182-1.927 2.182-2.619-2.255v-3.564h-.509c-.454 0-.672.273-.745.636H1.09a2.89 2.89 0 0 1-.091-.69c0-.473.2-1.71 1.527-1.71V7.691c0-1.073-.709-1.127-.709-2.054 0-1.037.982-2 2.782-2.637l.164.145c-.6.291-1.09.655-1.09 1.437 0 1.2 1.163.89 1.163 2.782v.727l2.127-2.236 2.237 2.2 2.109-2.2 2.036 2v6.728l-3.745 3.455zm11.108-9.625l-1.073-.982-.964 1.018v6.6c.855.11 1.491.4 2.019.964l.018-.018V8.413zm-2.382.418l-.528.545v10.237l.528.492V8.83zm1.49 9.055c-.308-.382-.69-.709-1.145-.836v3.782l-.036.018-1-.927-2.11 1.945-.036-.018V16.96c-.636.145-1.327.545-1.854 1.2l-.146-.091c.127-1.4.818-2.436 2-2.837v-3.545h-.382c-.527 0-.89.363-.963.763h-.219c-.054-.145-.127-.381-.127-.836 0-.891.6-1.564 1.582-1.564h.11V8.085l-.655-.582-.51.51-.254-.237 2.018-2.073 1.71 1.564V9.05l.527-.564v-2.09h.345v1.727l2.273-2.419L23 7.576v7.91l-3.182 2.4z" fill-le="evenodd"></path></svg><span class="mr-xs ml-xs gray-darkt flex ems-center">Get the full experience.<span class="ml-xs subs-theme blue">Choose your plan</span></span><svg class="ntent-box" width="16" height="16" viewBox="0 0 16 16" xmlns=" style="fill:#166dfc" aria-hidn="te" focable="false" role="img"><tle>ArrowRight</tle><path d="M7.664 1.25l6 6a1 1 0 010 1.414l-6 6L6.25 13.25 10.499 9H2V7h8.585L6.25 2.664 7.664 1.25z" fill-le="nonzero"></path></svg></a><div data-orientatn="horizontal" role="separator" class="wpds-c-dbVHzF wpds-c-dbVHzF-hDkAcj-variant-flt"></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div id="listicle-rd-CPHZMVIDWVAP5N56XDBYXDNLXU-0"><div id="list-headle-CPHZMVIDWVAP5N56XDBYXDNLXU-0" tabx="0" class="wpds-c-jKHtLo"><div></div><h3 class="wpds-c-eKlvKd listicle-headle" data-qa="list-headle">‘Properti of Thirst,’ by Marianne Wiggs (2022)</h3></div><a href="#sendary-nav" class="skip-lk sr-only sr-only-focable black unrle brad-md pa-lg mb-xs borr-box font-sans-serif font-bold">Return to menu</a><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null"><b>Nora Kg, </b>edor</p></div><div class="article-body grid-body grid-center" data-qa="article-body"><div data-qa="article-image" class="hi-for-prt"><div style="m-height:358px"></div></div><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">I was lucky enough this summer to have a longtime librarian as a hoe gut. Who better to offer a book remendatn (other than the ntributors to this lumn)? So, I asked my iend: What’s the bt book you have read this year? Whout skippg a beat, he answered: “<a href=" target=_blank>Properti of Thirst</a>,” by Marianne Wiggs, which me out paperback May. Conveniently, this book was already on my TBR pile. In fact, I had wanted to wre a feature about bee of s amazg backstory. Wiggs was nearly fished wrg the book when, 2016, she had a massive stroke. The Pulzer falist (and ex-wife of Salman Rhdie), now 75, not only lost the abily to wre but fot what she had already wrten. She enlisted the help of her dghter, Lara Porzak, to help her plete the 517-page novel. In the afterword, Lara scrib the experience poignant tail: Over the urse of several years, she read the book aloud to her mother multiple tim, until the characters me to feel like Lara and Marianne’s fay. Mother and dghter chatted “about their daily shenanigans and potential adventur, anythg to brg them back to the fabric of Mom’s memory.” Through this “powerful alchemy,” Lara wr, “art happened: the procs of fishg the novel shifted om beg an impossible burn to the very life-affirmg thg that helped to heal.” I am only about 50 pag to this sweepg, poetic novel — about a California rancher and his fay fightg, among other enemi, Los Angel over water rights — and I am already hooked.</p></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div id="listicle-rd-3GBE2C6DWJFAFKY4MALQQL5STI-1"><div id="list-headle-3GBE2C6DWJFAFKY4MALQQL5STI-1" tabx="0" class="wpds-c-jKHtLo"><div></div><h3 class="wpds-c-eKlvKd listicle-headle" data-qa="list-headle">‘Tomorrow Will Be Different: Love, Loss, and the Fight for Trans Equaly,’ by Sarah McBri (2018)</h3></div><a href="#sendary-nav" class="skip-lk sr-only sr-only-focable black unrle brad-md pa-lg mb-xs borr-box font-sans-serif font-bold">Return to menu</a><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null"><b>Becky Meloan,</b> edorial ai</p></div><div class="article-body grid-body grid-center" data-qa="article-body"><div data-qa="article-image" class="hi-for-prt"><div style="m-height:358px"></div></div><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">Readg The Post’s <a href=" target="_blank">recent survey of trans Amerins</a> got me thkg about a powerful book — “<a href=" target="_blank">Tomorrow Will Be Different: Love, Loss, and the Fight for Trans Equaly</a>,” by Sarah McBri. Now a Delaware state senator and recently announced <a href=" target="_blank">ndidate for the U.S. Hoe</a>, McBri wrote her life story before she was elected to office. Interted polics om a young age, and also eply certa she would someday need to tell her parents that she wasn’t a boy like they thought she was, she grew up believg that eventually g out as a trans woman would make impossible to pursue her polil ambns. Beg unable to live the world the way she saw herself fally beme unbearable durg her senr year of llege. Takg baby steps, she me out to iends, fay, classmat and mentors, and fortunately found the rpons varied but affirmg. As she me to terms wh her inty, she ntued down the polil path she had always dreamed of — mpaigng for Be Bin Delaware, and workg to pass LGBTQ legislatn Delaware and later the Obama Whe Hoe. Her <a href=" target="_blank">ndid, down-to-earth memoir</a> is a gift to those who seek to unrstand more about the personal and public journeys trans people face today’s world.</p></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div id="listicle-rd-UDAI7GXWTVGMTMYRKENRAIN7MY-2"><div id="list-headle-UDAI7GXWTVGMTMYRKENRAIN7MY-2" tabx="0" class="wpds-c-jKHtLo"><div></div><h3 class="wpds-c-eKlvKd listicle-headle" data-qa="list-headle">‘The Lonelit Amerins,’ by Jay Caspian Kang (2021)</h3></div><a href="#sendary-nav" class="skip-lk sr-only sr-only-focable black unrle brad-md pa-lg mb-xs borr-box font-sans-serif font-bold">Return to menu</a><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null"><b>Sophia Nguyen, </b>news and featur wrer</p></div><div class="article-body grid-body grid-center" data-qa="article-body"><div data-qa="article-image" class="hi-for-prt"><div style="m-height:358px"></div></div><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">A ltle after 10 a.m. on June 29, I download the PDF of the Supreme Court’s opn on affirmative actn — was long, and a lot of people were dog exactly the same thg, so took awhile — and then CTRL-F’ed for “Asian.” Is strange to say that I got more hs than I’d expected? The se, and the nversatn surroundg , theoretilly ncerned Asian Amerins; yet they (I suppose “we”) felt peculiarly cintal. Readg the ter that day felt like beg stuck traffic on the eeway: loud, tense, unmovg but somehow ducg motn sickns.</p></div><div class="article-body grid-full-bleed" data-qa="article-body"><div class="cb dn db-ns" data-qa="article-body-ad" data-ttid="article-body-ad-sktop"><div aria-hidn="te" class="hi-for-prt relative flex jtify-center ntent-box ems-center b bh mb-md mt-none pt-lg pb-lg" style="m-height:250px;borr-top-lor:;borr-bottom-lor:"><div class="center absolute w-100 borr-box" style="top:"><div class="dib gray-dark pl-xs pr-xs font-sans-serif light font-xxxxs lh-md" style="--primary-borr-lor:"></div></div><div data-ttid="placeholr-box" class="w-100 h-100 absolute flex flex-lumn jtify-center borr-box bg-offwhe" style="width:300px;height:250px"><div class="flex flex-lumn jtify-center font-sans-serif center font-xxs light gray-dark lh-md"><div>Advertisement</div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-full-bleed" data-qa="article-body"><div class="cb db dn-ns" data-qa="article-body-ad" data-ttid="article-body-ad-mobile"><div aria-hidn="te" class="hi-for-prt relative flex jtify-center ntent-box ems-center b bh mb-md mt-sm pt-sm pb-sm" style="m-height:250px;borr-top-lor:;borr-bottom-lor:"><div class="center absolute w-100 borr-box" style="top:"><div class="dib gray-dark pl-xs pr-xs font-sans-serif light font-xxxxs lh-md" style="--primary-borr-lor:"></div></div><div data-ttid="placeholr-box" class="w-100 h-100 absolute flex flex-lumn jtify-center borr-box bg-offwhe" style="width:300px;height:250px"><div class="flex flex-lumn jtify-center font-sans-serif center font-xxs light gray-dark lh-md"></div></div></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">In other words, felt like the right time to revis Jay Caspian Kang’s bracg 2021 book, “<a href=" target=_blank>The Lonelit Amerins</a>.” Lacg reportg wh polemic, ’s almost the oppose of a racial explaer: It’s rtls, cranky, a rare batn of nceptually rigoro and journalistilly cur. It’s the kd of book you thk wh and argue about, and that mak you feel — maybe foolishly — fally, we’re gettg somewhere.</p></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div id="listicle-rd-24T42633PVADXBAF4ZLVBEJBKA-3"><div id="list-headle-24T42633PVADXBAF4ZLVBEJBKA-3" tabx="0" class="wpds-c-jKHtLo"><div></div><h3 class="wpds-c-eKlvKd listicle-headle" data-qa="list-headle">‘Juno Lov Legs,’ by Karl Geary (2023)</h3></div><a href="#sendary-nav" class="skip-lk sr-only sr-only-focable black unrle brad-md pa-lg mb-xs borr-box font-sans-serif font-bold">Return to menu</a><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null"><b>Ron Charl, </b>fictn cric</p></div><div class="article-body grid-body grid-center" data-qa="article-body"><div data-qa="article-image" class="hi-for-prt"><div style="m-height:358px"></div></div><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">A few weeks ago <a href=" target=_blank>our ee Book Club newsletter</a>, I asked for exampl of cur differenc between U.S. and Brish book jackets. When a rear directed me to Karl Geary’s new novel, “<a href=" target=_blank>Juno Lov Legs</a>,” I uldn’t rist lvg beneath s ver(s). This is the story of Juno, a sharp-wted Irish girl the 1980s who’s too fiant to fd peace her dysfunctnal home or her btal Catholic school. “I was a lot,” she adms. “I was too much.” But her alholic father and toxic neighborhood would be too much for anyone. Deprsed by poverty and social isolatn, Juno experienc moments of peace by buryg herself the woods wh flowers and pretendg to be ad. She fds refuge only her iendship wh another young misf, a gay classmate she nicknam Legs. “We uldn’t be hurt,” she says, “not when the other was there.” Alas, that’s not entirely te. The trop of Irish tragedy arrive wh predictable regulary the pag, but the raw, liltg poetry of Juno’s voice provis a seri of heartbreakg revelatns.</p></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div id="listicle-rd-HZHP4E4E4BHULK57DQSQK5RI3Q-4"><div id="list-headle-HZHP4E4E4BHULK57DQSQK5RI3Q-4" tabx="0" class="wpds-c-jKHtLo"><div></div><h3 class="wpds-c-eKlvKd listicle-headle" data-qa="list-headle">‘The Rabow,’ by D.H. Lawrence (1915) and ‘Dpair,’ by Vladimir Nabokov (1937)</h3></div><a href="#sendary-nav" class="skip-lk sr-only sr-only-focable black unrle brad-md pa-lg mb-xs borr-box font-sans-serif font-bold">Return to menu</a><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null"><b>Bec Rothfeld, </b>nonfictn cric</p></div><div class="article-body grid-body grid-center" data-qa="article-body"><div data-qa="article-image" class="hi-for-prt"><div style="m-height:358px"></div></div><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">In high school, I loved the novels of D.H. Lawrence. I am generally not much of a re-rear — I am too plagued by anxiety that, on my ath bed, I will regret havg read “<a href=" target=_blank>Lola</a>” four tim when I have yet to read “<a href=" target=_blank>Middlemarch</a>” even once — but I do make a pot of returng to books I was too young to appreciate when I first happened upon them. For no reason other than hunger for an Unrtakg and the vague spicn that his unabashed sensualy mak him summery, I set out to read all of Lawrence’s novels, begng wh “<a href=" target=_blank>The Rabow</a>.” Do the prose hold up? In a way, holds up all too well. It is exactly the sort of thg I loved when I was a teenager, full of unmigated sex, ath and profundy. The wrg is betiful, but is also surgg, and I am no longer an appropriately ecstatic mood.</p></div><div class="article-body grid-full-bleed" data-qa="article-body"><div class="cb dn db-ns" data-qa="article-body-ad" data-ttid="article-body-ad-sktop"><div aria-hidn="te" class="hi-for-prt relative flex jtify-center ntent-box ems-center b bh mb-md mt-none pt-lg pb-lg" style="m-height:250px;borr-top-lor:;borr-bottom-lor:"><div class="center absolute w-100 borr-box" style="top:"><div class="dib gray-dark pl-xs pr-xs font-sans-serif light font-xxxxs lh-md" style="--primary-borr-lor:"></div></div><div data-ttid="placeholr-box" class="w-100 h-100 absolute flex flex-lumn jtify-center borr-box bg-offwhe" style="width:300px;height:250px"><div class="flex flex-lumn jtify-center font-sans-serif center font-xxs light gray-dark lh-md"><div>Advertisement</div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-full-bleed" data-qa="article-body"><div class="cb db dn-ns" data-qa="article-body-ad" data-ttid="article-body-ad-mobile"><div aria-hidn="te" class="hi-for-prt relative flex jtify-center ntent-box ems-center b bh mb-md mt-sm pt-sm pb-sm" style="m-height:250px;borr-top-lor:;borr-bottom-lor:"><div class="center absolute w-100 borr-box" style="top:"><div class="dib gray-dark pl-xs pr-xs font-sans-serif light font-xxxxs lh-md" style="--primary-borr-lor:"></div></div><div data-ttid="placeholr-box" class="w-100 h-100 absolute flex flex-lumn jtify-center borr-box bg-offwhe" style="width:300px;height:250px"><div class="flex flex-lumn jtify-center font-sans-serif center font-xxs light gray-dark lh-md"></div></div></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">So I fected to an thor for whom I am always the mood. My personal email addrs volv Nabokov’s name, and I cid to read all his novels. I started wh “<a href=" target=_blank>Mary</a>,” his but, which is about a Rsian exile pg for his first love and his homeland as he languish Berl; is not Nabokov’s bt, but is already lovely, nse wh lhly redolent scriptn. Next I turned to “<a href=" target=_blank>Dpair</a>,” his seventh novel, which is unmistakably the work of the master. The narrator is a classilly Nabokovian trickster, a supercil and schemg athete prone to dark sexual fantasy and meta-textual forays. It is well worth readg, but I know that the bt is yet to e. Let hot Nabokov summer mence!</p></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div id="gift-share-le" data-ttid="gift-share-le" class="PJLV PJLV-ilotWTr-css hi-for-prt"><button aria-haspopup="dialog" aria-expand="false" aria-ntrols="gift-share-drawer" role="button" tabx="0" aria-label="Share this article" id="gift-share-drawer-ntrol-le" data-ttid="gift-share-drawer-ntrol-le" class="wpds-c-PJLV wpds-c-gsmDXe wpds-c-gsmDXe-goNocI-placement-Inle foc-highlight"><div data-ttid="gift-share-terstial-trigger" class="wpds-c-kPqOkS wpds-c-kPqOkS-jtSXsT-hasSubsText-false"><span class="wpds-c-hBJqc"><span class="wpds-c-dzSncg">Share this article</span></span><span class="wpds-c-eCvK"><span class="wpds-c-enedHQ wpds-c-enedHQ-cCdK-isShown-false">Share</span><svg xmlns=" fill="currentColor" viewBox="0 0 16 16" aria-hidn="te" focable="false" role="img" class="wpds-c-fBqPWp wpds-c-fDHGth"><path fill="currentColor" d="M8 .6v3.8h.1c-4.4 0-7.3 4.5-6.9 8.8.1.8.2 1.2.2 1.2l.2 1 .4-1.3c.8-2 2-4 6.2-3.9H8v4l7-6.9L8 .6Zm1 11.3V9.3h-.9c-3 0-4.8.5-6.2 2.9.5-3.3 2.7-6.8 6.2-6.8H9V3l4.5 4.4L9 11.9Z"></path></svg></span></div></button></div></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div id="listicle-rd-PHER3JLZK5HLRN6Y5B5RVYH2CA-5"><div id="list-headle-PHER3JLZK5HLRN6Y5B5RVYH2CA-5" tabx="0" class="wpds-c-jKHtLo"><div></div><h3 class="wpds-c-eKlvKd listicle-headle" data-qa="list-headle">‘The Atheist the Attic,’ by Samuel R. Delany (2018)</h3></div><a href="#sendary-nav" class="skip-lk sr-only sr-only-focable black unrle brad-md pa-lg mb-xs borr-box font-sans-serif font-bold">Return to menu</a><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null"><b>Jab Brogan, </b>edor</p></div><div class="article-body grid-body grid-center" data-qa="article-body"><div data-qa="article-image" class="hi-for-prt"><div style="m-height:358px"></div></div><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">As Julian Lus wr a <a href=" target=_blank>magnificent recent New Yorker profile</a>, Samuel R. Delany begs his days wh an “atheist’s prayer, hailg faraway celtial bodi wh a lany spired by the seventeenth-century philosopher Bach Spoza.” It’s an apt nnectn, bee Spoza, our greatt thker of the relatnships between bodi — the way they ph and pull one another, but also the way they rs and spire — has long been a rource for the queer imagatn. And Delany, who is bt known for his often-experimental science fictn novels, has spent his long and very queer reer imagg the many ways that bodi of all kds n e together.</p></div><div class="article-body grid-full-bleed" data-qa="article-body"><div class="cb dn db-ns" data-qa="article-body-ad" data-ttid="article-body-ad-sktop"><div aria-hidn="te" class="hi-for-prt relative flex jtify-center ntent-box ems-center b bh mb-md mt-none pt-lg pb-lg" style="m-height:250px;borr-top-lor:;borr-bottom-lor:"><div class="center absolute w-100 borr-box" style="top:"><div class="dib gray-dark pl-xs pr-xs font-sans-serif light font-xxxxs lh-md" style="--primary-borr-lor:"></div></div><div data-ttid="placeholr-box" class="w-100 h-100 absolute flex flex-lumn jtify-center borr-box bg-offwhe" style="width:300px;height:250px"><div class="flex flex-lumn jtify-center font-sans-serif center font-xxs light gray-dark lh-md"><div>Advertisement</div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-full-bleed" data-qa="article-body"><div class="cb db dn-ns" data-qa="article-body-ad" data-ttid="article-body-ad-mobile"><div aria-hidn="te" class="hi-for-prt relative flex jtify-center ntent-box ems-center b bh mb-md mt-sm pt-sm pb-sm" style="m-height:250px;borr-top-lor:;borr-bottom-lor:"><div class="center absolute w-100 borr-box" style="top:"><div class="dib gray-dark pl-xs pr-xs font-sans-serif light font-xxxxs lh-md" style="--primary-borr-lor:"></div></div><div data-ttid="placeholr-box" class="w-100 h-100 absolute flex flex-lumn jtify-center borr-box bg-offwhe" style="width:300px;height:250px"><div class="flex flex-lumn jtify-center font-sans-serif center font-xxs light gray-dark lh-md"></div></div></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">“<a href=" target=_blank>The Atheist the Attic</a>,” a novella that may be his fal work of prose fictn, is a strange but ftg artifact the arc of his reer. It claims to be a seri of diary entri by the mathematician and philosopher Gottied Leibniz documentg his (wholly imaged) vis to the home of Spoza. At s heart is a dizzyg nversatn between two of history’s greatt mds a way that uld have been renred only by one of our most brilliant livg wrers.</p></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">It is a challengg book the way that visg Delany himself — an experience that Lus perfectly ptur his profile — n be. But as is often the se wh Delany’s wrg, s rewards lie stg wh those challeng. (Those new to Delany’s work may want to stead beg wh “<a href=" target=_blank>Nova</a>,” “<a href=" target=_blank>Trouble on Tron</a>” or my favore, “<a href=" target=_blank>Tal of Nevèrÿon</a>.”) As Delany has Leibniz observe, “Well, thkg about what’s not supposed to require thkg, that <i>is </i>philosophy, no?” Havg spent s thkg about topics once emed below nsiratn, Delany has given ample reasons to go on philosophizg, endlsly and expansively.</p></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div id="listicle-rd-EC2T7CG3HNDHPJJFJ35BXZNTNU-6"><div id="list-headle-EC2T7CG3HNDHPJJFJ35BXZNTNU-6" tabx="0" class="wpds-c-jKHtLo"><div></div><h3 class="wpds-c-eKlvKd listicle-headle" data-qa="list-headle">‘Blood, Bon & Butter: The Inadvertent Edutn of a Reluctant Chef,’ by Gabrielle Haton (2011)</h3></div><a href="#sendary-nav" class="skip-lk sr-only sr-only-focable black unrle brad-md pa-lg mb-xs borr-box font-sans-serif font-bold">Return to menu</a><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null"><b>Jill Pellettieri, </b>edor</p></div><div class="article-body grid-body grid-center" data-qa="article-body"><div data-qa="article-image" class="hi-for-prt"><div style="m-height:358px"></div></div><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">I ok more the summer, so seemed like the perfect time to turn to <a href=" target=_blank>Haton’s book about her life and reer</a>. I enjoyed a meal at Haton’s now-shuttered rtrant Pne almost a and a half ago, and I n still remember the succulent pork belly I ate, a food that I’d never liked much before and that I’ve never liked much sce. Pl, a good food memoir is almost always my thg. But Haton’s book is not jt for lovers of the genre. The book has the same zy timacy as her rtrant. Haton v rears to her life experienc, scribg the relatnships that shaped her wh the same re and precisn she brgs to her okg. She wr of her mother: “So what is there to make of the simplistic thg I’ve e to utter explanatn, which is so drab, so monochromatic, so water on top of ice even though ’s the most direct, most distilled path om my heart to my mouth: I feel better whout her.” Her scriptns of food are so strikg she n make even the most dited rnivore salivate for a 35-cent t of sard. Pne may have closed, but thankfully rears n still revel Haton’s artistry through her wrg.</p></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div id="listicle-rd-4FBGP2ZKBJAKXJCOAX5ZVUZBKI-7"><div id="list-headle-4FBGP2ZKBJAKXJCOAX5ZVUZBKI-7" tabx="0" class="wpds-c-jKHtLo"><div></div><h3 class="wpds-c-eKlvKd listicle-headle" data-qa="list-headle">‘Thunr at Twilight: Vienna 1913-1914,’ by Freric Morton (1989) and ‘1913: The Year Before the Storm,’ by Florian Illi (2013)</h3></div><a href="#sendary-nav" class="skip-lk sr-only sr-only-focable black unrle brad-md pa-lg mb-xs borr-box font-sans-serif font-bold">Return to menu</a><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null"><b>John Williams, </b>Book World edor</p></div><div class="article-body grid-body grid-center" data-qa="article-body"><div data-qa="article-image" class="hi-for-prt"><div style="m-height:358px"></div></div><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">I have a cent-size shelf of acclaimed books about World War I at home, a few of which I’ve even read, and yet the full motivatns and ntours of the epochal nflict — te to s reputatn — still elu my unrstandg. I have my sights set for soon on a uple of other big acunts of the era, cludg Barbara Tuchman’s “<a href=" target=_blank>The Guns of Augt</a>,” but for now I’m readg about one of history’s great unknowg prologu, the year before the war. Freric Morton’s “<a href=" target=_blank>Thunr at Twilight</a>” tak to Vienna the months before the assassatn of Franz Ferdand Sarajevo. We get energetic narrative portras of Ferdand and his polil rivals; of Frd and Jung; and, wh ep forhadowg of the send global taclysm that would e, of Stal and Hler. Florian Illi’s “<a href=" target=_blank>1913</a>” is a more tentnally agmented, imprsnistic diary of sorts, proceedg through the year month by month and focg more on artistic figur (Kafka, Pisso, Klimt, Stravsky …) than polil on. Each book might make history too digtible by (at least) half, but when to a time that sent the world to a sensels spiral of horrors, ’s hard to md.</p></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><div id="listicle-rd-ZMKSNXRUB5HQFDBG6KPX5WYBZI-8"><div id="list-headle-ZMKSNXRUB5HQFDBG6KPX5WYBZI-8" tabx="0" class="wpds-c-jKHtLo"><div></div><h3 class="wpds-c-eKlvKd listicle-headle" data-qa="list-headle">‘Last Post,’ by Freric Raphael (2023)</h3></div><a href="#sendary-nav" class="skip-lk sr-only sr-only-focable black unrle brad-md pa-lg mb-xs borr-box font-sans-serif font-bold">Return to menu</a><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null"><b>Michael Dirda, </b>lumnist</p></div><div class="article-body grid-full-bleed" data-qa="article-body"><div class="cb dn db-ns" data-qa="article-body-ad" data-ttid="article-body-ad-sktop"><div aria-hidn="te" class="hi-for-prt relative flex jtify-center ntent-box ems-center b bh mb-md mt-none pt-lg pb-lg" style="m-height:250px;borr-top-lor:;borr-bottom-lor:"><div class="center absolute w-100 borr-box" style="top:"><div class="dib gray-dark pl-xs pr-xs font-sans-serif light font-xxxxs lh-md" style="--primary-borr-lor:"></div></div><div data-ttid="placeholr-box" class="w-100 h-100 absolute flex flex-lumn jtify-center borr-box bg-offwhe" style="width:300px;height:250px"><div class="flex flex-lumn jtify-center font-sans-serif center font-xxs light gray-dark lh-md"><div>Advertisement</div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-full-bleed" data-qa="article-body"><div class="cb db dn-ns" data-qa="article-body-ad" data-ttid="article-body-ad-mobile"><div aria-hidn="te" class="hi-for-prt relative flex jtify-center ntent-box ems-center b bh mb-md mt-sm pt-sm pb-sm" style="m-height:250px;borr-top-lor:;borr-bottom-lor:"><div class="center absolute w-100 borr-box" style="top:"><div class="dib gray-dark pl-xs pr-xs font-sans-serif light font-xxxxs lh-md" style="--primary-borr-lor:"></div></div><div data-ttid="placeholr-box" class="w-100 h-100 absolute flex flex-lumn jtify-center borr-box bg-offwhe" style="width:300px;height:250px"><div class="flex flex-lumn jtify-center font-sans-serif center font-xxs light gray-dark lh-md"></div></div></div></div></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">Freric Raphael is a Brish novelist, sayist and screenwrer, whose films clu “<a href=" target=_blank>Darlg</a>,” starrg Julie Christie, for which he won an Amy Award. In recent years he’s been wrg var sorts of memoirs. The latt, the curly stctured “<a href=" target=_blank>Last Post</a>,” nsists of say-length letters addrsed to ad iends, mentors and enemi — the clu lerary cric Gee Steer, book edor Tom Maschler, poser and lyricist Llie Bricse, artist Michael Ayrton and many others. The “letters” are all sentially acunts of Raphael’s associatn wh the emenc, upled wh cril appreciatns of their achievements. Each addrs s recipient as though he or she were still alive, as the openg to that for director Stanley Kubrick: “Dear Stanley, Did I ever hear you lgh or see you se?” This send-person approach do take gettg ed to.</p></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">Two other thgs make Raphael’s piec remarkable. First, they are packed wh sndalo, sometim vengeful anecdot about Fleet Street, publishg, the London lerary scene and the ternatnal film world. Send, Raphael wr extravagantly pun-filled, alln-rich prose, as if S.J. Perelman had done really, really well classics at Cambridge.</p></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">While the full dazzle of Raphael’s verbal fireworks requir extensive quotatn, he n also be wryly ncise. Of a celebry uple, he not: “If not yet married, you were certaly joed at the hype.”</p></div><div class="article-body grid-center grid-body" data-qa="article-body"><p data-ttid="drop-p-letter" data-el="text" class="wpds-c-cYdRxM wpds-c-cYdRxM-iPJLV-css overriStyl font-py" dir="null">“Last Post” has been my bedsi book for the past week, and I’ve only begun to sample s dub pleasur.</p></div></div></div></div><div></div><div class="wpds-c-dhzjXW wpds-c-dhzjXW-iPJLV-css mt-md grid-center grid-body"><div id="gift-share-end" data-ttid="gift-share-end" class="PJLV PJLV-idiqKOk-css hi-for-prt"><button aria-haspopup="dialog" aria-expand="false" aria-ntrols="gift-share-drawer" role="button" tabx="0" aria-label="Share this article" id="gift-share-drawer-ntrol-end" data-ttid="gift-share-drawer-ntrol-end" class="wpds-c-PJLV wpds-c-gsmDXe wpds-c-gsmDXe-iIVoLq-placement-Shortcut foc-highlight"><div class="wpds-c-UazGY" id="gift-share-shortcut" data-ttid="gift-share-shortcut"><svg xmlns=" fill="var(--wpds-lors-primary)" viewBox="0 0 16 16" aria-hidn="te" focable="false" role="img" class="wpds-c-fVfumU "><path fill="currentColor" d="M8 .6v3.8h.1c-4.4 0-7.3 4.5-6.9 8.8.1.8.2 1.2.2 1.2l.2 1 .4-1.3c.8-2 2-4 6.2-3.9H8v4l7-6.9L8 .6Zm1 11.3V9.3h-.9c-3 0-4.8.5-6.2 2.9.5-3.3 2.7-6.8 6.2-6.8H9V3l4.5 4.4L9 11.9Z"></path></svg><div class="PJLV wpds-c-kwcHlj">Share</div></div></button></div><div class="wpds-c-hcekgi"><div class="mb-lg-mod" data-qa="ments-btn-div"><button aria-label="Scroll to the ments sectn" data-qa="ments-btn" class="wpds-c-kSOqLF wpds-c-kSOqLF-SQjOY-variant-sendary wpds-c-kSOqLF-eHdizY-nsy-flt wpds-c-kSOqLF-ejCoEP-in-left wpds-c-kSOqLF-igqYgPb-css ments hi-for-prt"><svg xmlns=" viewBox="0 0 16 16" fill="currentColor" aria-hidn="te" focable="false" role="img" class="wpds-c-fBqPWp "><path d="M14 14V2H2v9.47h8.18L12.43 13ZM3 10.52V3h10v9.23l-2.5-1.66Z"></path></svg><span></span> Comments</button></div></div></div><div class="grid-center grid-body"><div></div></div></ma></div><div class="grid-center grid-mobile-full-bleed"><div class="hi-for-prt ml-to mr-to mt-md pt-lg recirc" data-qa="recirc"><div class="flex-l jtify-center hi-for-prt"><div class="pr-sm ml-sm ml-0-ns b-l br-l bc-gray-darkt more-om-post"><div></div><div class="dn db-l pb-md pt-md"><div data-qa="newsletter" class="hi-for-prt relative"><div class="dib w-100"><div><div class="flex jtify-center align self-center center transn-all duratn-400 ease--out" data-qa="sc-newsletter-signup" aria-label=""><svg aria-labelledby="react-aria-1-aria" role="img" viewBox="0 0 100 80"><tle id="react-aria-1-aria">Loadg... .