A friend who lives deep in the French countryside was listening to the radio the other day when she heard a poem by Baudelaire, called “Avril.” She spent the entire day trying to trace it and finally emailed Radio France to ask where she could read it. The answer came. But there’s a surprising kicker.

While events are postponed at The Graduate Center of the City University of New York in the heart of Manhattan, videos of recent public programs from its archive will be featured here for your enjoyment. The videos offer illuminating discussions in two main categories: insights into current events and conversations with leading writers and artists.

for a useful meaning
no starched collar
inked his lines
nor the uptight
narrowness
of the familiar
bank clerk

Heavy snow took down the internet, which came back up just now . . . will the power lines go down ? . . . the snow is still falling . . . fingers crossed . . . beautiful to look at though, and the two grandkids will go sledding . . . hear from a friend in Berlin that the sun is out there . . . and so are the sun worshippers . . . plenty of ambulance sirens too . . . no sun here, much less worshippers . . . as to sirens, I haven’t heard one in four weeks . . . glad of that . . . even in normal times they were a regular sound track back in the city . . .

I’ve been skimming through a complete collection of Chekhov’s stories. There’s lotsa chaff—small anecdotes published in newspapers from early days that don’t do much and weren’t intended for the ages. But then you come upon “an unpleasantness,” a long story from a later period that stands up like an erection. It’s about a doctor who runs […]

A friend writes from the French countryside: The invisible threat casts a shadow over an otherwise idyllic springtime. When normally one’s own sorrows are cast aside, albeit temporarily, by the blossoming of nature and its infectious sense of hope, this year comes with a malaise which seems to leach all sense of renewal; and so I find myself hesitant in all I do.