Lebowitz still calls herself a writer, even though she hasn’t published a new book in years. Buoyed up by the success of Pretend It’s a City, last year her publishers repackaged The Fran Lebowitz Reader, which combined her two books of essays, for British readers. It reveals its then twentysomething author as an astute social observer – Nora Ephron, with added spikes – and a master of pared-back prose. “There is no such thing as inner peace,” she wrote. “There is only nervousness and death.”
Lebowitz says that she hasn’t given up on the idea of returning to writing, though, given the success of her speaking tours, she is not feeling any pressure. She and her editor have this routine when they’re out together: she will introduce him by saying, “This is my editor” and he will quip: “Easiest job in town.” He once told her that she had an “excessive reverence for the printed word”, which she thinks hit the nail on the head. “I am a psychotic perfectionist when it comes to writing, which makes it very hard,” she says. “It’s a combination of that and the fact that if I’m not the laziest person that ever lived, then I’m certainly among them. Writing is really hard and I’m really lazy – and talking is easy for me.”
When he first returned from space, William Shatner was overcome with emotion. The actor, then 90 years old, stood in the dusty grass of the West Texas desert, where the spacecraft had landed. It was October 2021. Nearby, Jeff Bezos, the billionaire who had invited Shatner to ride on a Blue Origin rocket, whooped and popped a bottle of champagne, but Shatner hardly seemed to notice. With tears falling down his cheeks, he described what he had witnessed, his tone hushed. “What you have given me is the most profound experience I can imagine,” Shatner told Bezos. “It’s extraordinary. Extraordinary. I hope I never recover from this.” The man who had played Captain Kirk was so moved by the journey that his post-touchdown remarks ran longer than the three minutes he’d actually spent in space.
Shatner appeared to be basking in a phenomenon that many professional astronauts have described: the overview effect. These travelers saw Earth as a gleaming planet suspended in inky darkness, an oasis of life in the silent void, and it filled them with awe. “No one could be briefed well enough to be completely prepared for the astonishing view that I got,” Alan Shepard, the first American in space, wrote in 1962, after he’d made the same trip that Shatner later took.
Sparkling fresh white snow is the most naturally reflective surface on Earth. When algal blooms take hold, they darken the snow, which then absorbs more heat and melts more quickly. This can create a feedback loop: As temperatures rise and more snow melts, the snow algae—which needs nutrients, light and liquid water—flourishes and expands. The algal bloom alters its own habitat, and appears to alter the surrounding habitat in the process. Just over half of the total runoff in the West comes from snowmelt, but the extent to which snow algae contributes to melting isn’t currently included in standard snowmelt models. These scientists hope that their work can help us better understand the role it plays as the climate changes.
Using subtext and omission, Ferrada trusts that the reader will fill in the gaps and reach their conclusions. The bare prose builds intrigue and suspense, which results in a page-turner of a book. This is my favorite kind of book, the kind I wish to write, that leaves space for the imagination and invites the reader to conjure their own meaning. For this reader, that meant contemplating what it means to live in true freedom and the resulting awareness of another’s subjugation. With the surge in hate crimes against those that do not conform, Ferrada’s novel feels more urgent than ever.
Death stalks the pages of this posthumous collection but despite such darkness, there are moments of levity and clear, precise use of language from a writer who strove for perfection.
But Leland Bardwell (1922-2016), despite her dedication to her craft, may have felt that her artistic life was not a success. At least, that is what her son deduces from a story entitled ‘The Final Dinner Party’.