LATEST ADDITIONS

...And I was returned to those weird and warm Florida nights when I'd leap eagerly from my comfortable but lonely bedroom at the sound of a weak car horn. In moments, I'd be out and free.

<I>Missing Pages: Black Journalists of Modern America&mdash;An Oral History</I> sounds like one heck of a good read. And while we're on the subject, I also recommend the Library of America's <A HREF="http://www.reportingcivilrights.org/loa/"><I>Reporting Civil Rights</I></A>.

Mary Gordon writes on the essence of memory.

Lee Konitz, who turns 80 in October, ambled on stage last night at New York’s Zankel Hall, blew a note, asked his audience to hum it, then, as we all hummed it continuously like a dirge, he blew over it on his alto sax, an improvised solo, darting and weaving, choppy then breezy, sifting changes, shifting rhythms, and all so very cool. It lasted five minutes, it probably could have gone much longer. Then two old pals, bassist Steve Swallow and drummer Paul Motian, joined him, and they played standards. Tenor saxophonist Joe Lovano came out to trade fours and eights. They all left, and on came a string quartet, which played ballads and Debussy, Konitz cruising over the sweet strings in his signature airy tone, with its syncopated cadences and wry, insouciant swing.

When Franz Reuleaux created the "language of invention," he more or less invented the future we live in.

Not bloody likely, says Michael Dirda. A scant 12 years after his death, you're unlikely to find even his most lauded novel, <I>Lucky Jim</I> in bookstores, libraries, or on friends' bookshelves.