“Eat your vegetables if you want to be big and strong” is something I can still hear my grandmother saying clearly in the back of my head whenever I sit down to have a meal without any greens. But I did eat my vegetables, and I am neither a big man nor a strong one. I’ve returned many jars of pickles to the grocery store rather than admit that I just couldn’t open them.
To say the potato was hefty wouldn’t do justice to the absolute behemoth that was laid into the to-go tray — barely fitting, with cheese and meats pressed against the lid as if they had been fighting for freedom the moment the container was clamped shut. As soon as I opened it, I was greeted with the aroma of barbecue beef, sauce, cheddar, and butter that would have made the Lone Star State proud.
Horror Movie takes place in a reality in which several, frequently contradictory, things can be equally and forcefully true all at once. In Horror Movie, this duality concerns the precise events that take place within the movie and with the lore surrounding it versus the reality that other characters involved know to be true. The inherent tension in these contradictions ratchets up over the course of the novel as the events spiral toward their inevitable, gut-wrenching conclusions. Tremblay’s juggling of three narratives—the Thin Kid’s past, his present, and the script—is equally intense. Landing the climax of a horror plot is one of the most challenging literary feats, and Tremblay has to stick the landing three times over. Somehow, remarkably, he manages.
Kimble’s new book City Limits: Infrastructure, Inequality, and the Future of America’s Highways tells the stories of people who reopen infrastructural conversations that might otherwise seem closed. Where Caro plotted the rise of a single logistical maestro, Kimble profiles the chorus of residents, activists, and experts waging generational fights for the future of Houston, Dallas, and Austin, Texas. The result is at once a compelling inventory of what people have sacrificed for vehicular speed, an instructive primer on who makes what go where in urban space, and a call to rethink our reliance on highways in light of their environmental impact.
Ultimately, Ban’s work showcases how architecture can be both veil and shelter. The former relies on the translucent and ephemeral, whereas the latter is all about raw materiality. In a world where basic shelter is the most valuable commodity of all, this approach pays instant humanitarian dividends, as well as provide a vital revaluation of how to make the most of materials in an age of finite resources.
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