you would have read in the last issue something like (one of my favorite artists) Anna Deveare Smith’s journal from Uganda:
“The last thing that Sylvia told me, ‘I cried,’ was not true. Els de Temmerman rode back with us to Kampala, and in the van she told me that when Sylvia got off of the helicopter that brought her home, her mother ran towards her, sobbing, and prepared to embrace her child after so many years away. Kony had so successfully brainwashed Sylvia that he robbed her of something we think of as natural — that is a child’s primal attachment to a mother. Sylvia’s response to the embrace that meant to sweep her up was to shove her mother to the ground.”
Or, you would have read fiction from William T. Vollmann or the poetry of Reginald Shepard:
I wouldn’t know what to do
with gods worth more than summer,
a laconic, deadpan glamour
overlaying the intent to harm,
thorn of my enemies
stuck in my side. I am the dagger, I am
the scar. I raise another frosted glass of war
and down it with one gulp….
Or, as you can see by these examples a lot of great writing by people you’ve heard of and some you haven’t.
Of course, this is a fairly gratuitous post because I’m writing this merely because I’m appreciative. Right now while supplies last the folks at A Public Space are giving to new and re- subscribers copies of the DVD of Helvetica, the documentary film about a font (yes, a font) that seems to be sweeping the nation (at least in the circles that I hang out in). I got mine
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