I loved the first six volumes of <I>Tales of the City</I>, although the recently published <I>Michael Tolliver Lives</I> sounds pretty dire. Still, few writers have ever written more lovingly about the city by the bay.
Rilke, Durer, and the rise of science.
Does the Western 12-tone scale represent every tone possibility? Oh, grasshopper, you have so much to learn.
You can tell how nimble an animal is by checking the size of its inner ear.
...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—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.
I'm with Calvin Trillin on this one: Never eat in a restaurant that rotates.
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.
