Embedded in this response is a dichotomous view of what books should be, or rather what they are for. Fiction tells interesting stories, usually about interesting people, ideally with some greater lessons or connection to the human condition; nonfiction offers information about the real world, past or present, in a manner that makes a coherent and easily summarized argument. Of course, there’s some blurring here and there, but both types of books generally are structured according to the conventions of their subgenres and can be easily categorized and taxonomized.
I write today in praise of a third genre that few self-respecting intellectuals admit to reading regularly, though many do: the reference book.
Our ability to imagine is an awesome power. But since it uses the same brain machinery as other thoughts and perceptions, and because we can remember what we imagine, we face a serious problem: How can we make sure we can tell the difference between memories of things that happened from memories of things we simply imagined?
By narrowing its scope to the hospital room, Small Rain keeps its eye not on a sparrow but on a suffering human being. The solution that the novel proposes to Dickinson’s dilemma—how to write about pain when pain defies expression?—is not a stunned silence or an inarticulate cry of despair. The language for pain, instead, is that of poetry, which charges the words of a sentence with the force of beauty, turning chaos into consolation.
Fans of British writer Matt Haig’s “The Midnight Library” – and they are legion – will be thrilled by “The Life Impossible,” which revisits the question of how to live your best life. The two novels follow a somewhat similar playbook, each chronicling a woman at a low point who discovers life’s infinite possibilities through the help of a supernatural boost.
My Brother’s Ashes are in a Sandwich Bag is a testament to Brasier’s unique perspective on life and grief. She skilfully navigates profound themes with a blend of silliness and seriousness, capturing the essence of her experiences with an approach that is both refreshing and candid.
But this cinematic love letter contains more than in-depth commentary: there’s biography, oral history, and personal reflection. The result is a playful, even whimsical, contribution to the effort to consolidate De Palma’s auteur status, to evaluate De Palma’s reputation as one of America’s most important, though divisive, filmmakers.