Among literary forms, war poetry is unusual for having enjoyed a universally acknowledged and tightly defined golden age.
Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes See nothing save their own unlovely woe, Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,— This is the opening verse of Oscar Wilde’s “Sonnet to Liberty.” Beyond its apparent cynicism, it elegantly encapsulates the acute miseries of youth—solipsistic, impatient,
We were extremely close for about five years. He was my confidante and my support system. We were best friends. Never lovers—though many thought we were. It was a dark time for me, and I needed him. Canadian gay writer Richard Murray Vaughan (1965–2020) was found dead by
Locked down in a northern Ontario cottage over the summer, I found myself listening to CBC Radio’s Sunday Edition, an eclectic three-hour weekly morning show hosted, until his recent retirement, by veteran journalist and broadcaster Michael Enright. On this particular Sunday in July, guest host Anthony Germain interviewed Candis
Who wrote this? “Political language—and with variations this is true of all political parties, from Conservatives to Anarchists—is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.” But you guessed straight away: George Orwell. The subject
A tragic early death can do wonders for a writer’s reputation. On October 27, Google dedicated its search page to the late Sylvia Plath, who would have turned 87 that day, had she not taken her own life, at the age of 30, back in 1963. It seems unlikely
If US immigration facilities Are like concentration camps What other American things Must we brand with the same stamp? Surely general admission seating At a Backstreet Boys show Is like millions of innocent people Killed in unspeakable rows And that maddening line at the airport Where I’m forced
Silicon Valley has gone all-in On purging ideas deemed bad It’s like mouths washed out with soap By the nuns who taught my dad The important distinction being: That was in 1955 Those with soap on their hands today Were decades from being alive We’re going