Claire is an editor for the arts section of the Daily. Claire is a first-year who has not yet declared a major and can be reached at claire.lecates@tufts.edu.
Nelio Biedermann’s “Lázár” opens with an epigraph taken from a poem by German writer Alfred Lichtenstein. “A blond poet perhaps goes mad” is inscribed on the page in greeting, maybe in warning. And just as Lichtenstein’s blond poet unravels, so do Lázár’s subjects.
When asked what I’m studying, I normally shrug and noncommittally say “English.” I want to make it clear that I’m aware it’s a somewhat romantic pursuit, set apart from the new standard of preprofessional studies and STEM obsessions that have spread throughout the undergraduate world. It’s easy to interrogate myself and try to identify the point of studying English literature. I find myself searching for an answer that feels like it’s moving further and further away in an increasingly artificial world.
“What a lovely home I found myself plummeting toward, acquiring, as I fell, arms, hands, legs, feet, all of which, as usual, became more substantial with each passing second.” So begins “Vigil.” Just as we are abruptly dropped into the surreal world of George Saunders’ latest novel, our principal character, Jill Blaine, is dropped onto Earth and into her signature black pumps.
The travelogue is a unique subgenre of American literature: A man goes on a journey, spiritual and physical, across America’s sprawling highways, and his trip is documented — either as fiction or memoir. Some of the most famed American authors, including John Steinbeck, Mark Twain and Jack Kerouac published, within these parameters and helped define the genre (publishing “Travels with Charley: In Search of America,” “Roughing it” and “On the Road,” respectively).
Many of those who settled into the red-cushioned seats at their go-to movie theaters in 2022, armed with buttered popcorn or slushies, would have been met with an ad for the U.S. Air Force between movie trailers for upcoming blockbusters. In came the droning of a fighter jet and a cinematic shot of it swooping around mountaintops and through arid plains spotted with cacti. The advertisement barely shows any faces under the helmets, possibly to encourage viewers to imagine themselves in the cockpit. The command to “aim high” lingers on the screen at the end of the ad, followed by the URL of the Air Force website.
Despite his choice of title, Bryan Washington certainly isn’t palavering in his third standalone novel. The book delivers 336 pages of routine moments conveyed with great momentum. From Jamaica through Houston and Toronto, all the way to Tokyo, “Palaver” gently leads readers through moments that may seem inconsequential individually, but ultimately comprise all the life-altering decisions and important relationships that define us.
Lately, country music has felt somewhat inescapable. Songs from Morgan Wallen’s new album hold multiple spots on the Billboard Hot 100 while echoes of a country twang have made their way into Sabrina Carpenter’s recent music. Country’s spreading influence is visible in Beyoncé’s Texan homecoming, Noah Kahan’s seemingly overnight fame or the success of Shaboozey’s hit “A Bar Song (Tipsy).” In a 2023 study on popular U.S. radio content, songs falling into the genre of country composed 41% (second highest to the grouped category of rock, alternative and indie) of music on the radio. That’s a percentage even higher than pop.
Recently, strolling down Broadway has felt more like scrolling through Netflix. Names like Daniel Craig, Keanu Reeves, Sarah Paulson, Eddie Redmayne, Kieran Culkin, Elle Fanning, Daniel Radcliffe, Rachel McAdams, Lola Tung, Nick Jonas and countless others have all been written in Broadway’s flashing lights over the past few years. MTA subway advertisements urge commuters not to miss Steve Carell in “Uncle Vanya” or George Clooney in “Good Night, and Good Luck” while Sandra Oh waltzes around the stage of a star-studded Shakespeare in the Park production for those lucky enough to possess coveted tickets.
