u/TemperatureAny4782

Yellowface was a lot of fun in an “oh my God, is she really going there?” way. Babel had a brilliant premise but didn’t do enough with it, and it was marred by anachronism and a grating, didactic approach. Katabasis was a slog. The Poppy War trilogy was ambitious and intermittently powerful but was the product of a very young writer, and feels like it.

Taipei Story is her first truly mature novel, one in which her reach didn’t exceed her grasp. It’s subtler than she’s been in the past; she doesn’t seem to have felt the need to be obvious in the way she sometimes has. It’s affecting. It feels true. And it’s written with un-showy gracefulness.

In the past, she’s hovered right above her characters, gesturing toward them. In Taipei Story, she’s stepped back, giving them room to breathe. It’s a real achievement.

Wasn’t there a music video in which band footage was cut with a traditional, like, narrative video? Can no longer find.

Lots of cops. Heard one shout, “Do not fucking move!“ and, later, “If you attempt to flee, you will be shot. Do you understand me?”

Could not swear an oath that that was the exact language, but if not it was very close.

Left but just saw on Facebook that four people were arrested.

Anyone know what happened?

This is the opening to a short story I’m working on. It’s called “Foul Case.” Would love any feedback!

“You’re going to Hell, then,” Mother said, her lined face turned not toward me but the knitting in her lap. 

We were in the drawing room; the thick curtains had been opened to let in the gentle midwinter light. My throat tightened. I knew the gravity of what I intended to do, that I would be leaving all this—the familiar portraits hanging on the light green walls, the chandelier suspended above us, and, most of all, her—behind. 

 ”Chicago isn’t Hell,” I finally managed to say. She said nothing. There was no sound but the clink of her needles.

 After a few moments, I left the room, easing the door shut behind me. 

# # #

Six weeks later, I arrived in Chicago only to realize Mother may have been right after all. It was a cramped city, teeming with people; I was told the population had more than tripled in the past ten years, something I could easily credit. People were everywhere, shouting from carriages, stepping over dead horses, relieving themselves against buildings. Everything was in motion. The buildings themselves were in motion, as crews worked to lift them so that sewers could be installed; meanwhile, the streets ran thick with waste. 

Still, I’d made my choice: I had left behind the pampered life that had been planned for me to make my own way in the bustling city. (I tried not to think too hard about the fact that I possessed, hidden in a small compartment at the back of my trunk, a significant amount of money, none of it earned by my own hands). Chicago isn’t Hell, I told myself as I pointedly ignored the cry of a rail-thin demimondaine. Chicago is a forge. 

As soon as I’d obtained lodgings, unpacked my trunk, and forced down a meal, I set off in search of Wolfings Press. I’m ashamed to admit now that I expected something grand, with marble floors and cavernous ceilings. What I found, of course, was something much humbler: a weathered building crammed between a tannery and a dingy general store. The home of the press lacked even an address; only the sight of a wolf atop a hill, etched into a modest sign, assured me that I was in the right place.

I rapped twice. 

”What?” The voice was thunderous. 

I steeled myself before responding. “I’m here to meet David Elsted, proprietor of the Wolfings Press.”

Silence followed. I had just raised my fist to rap again when the door swung open. Standing before me was not the elegant figure I in my ignorance had expected, but a squat, thickly muscled man with thinning black hair and a furious expression. “Name,” he demanded, staring.    

“William Fitzpatrick.” I braced myself for an anti-Irish tirade. It wouldn’t be the first I’d endured.

“Purpose.” 

 ”Look, might I come inside?” 

 “Purpose.” He was gripping the door handle so tightly I thought it might come off in his hands.

I sighed. “I’ve come to work for you.” He made to slam the door, but I caught it. “You needn’t worry about payment; I don’t ask for any. All I ask is for the chance to learn.” 

He ran his huge right hand through what remained of his hair and looked Heavenward, as if for aid. “I’m not in the business of teaching,” he said. “I’m in the business of print.” 

Perhaps the wise thing to do would have been to leave; it was clear he didn’t want me there. But I’d left everything I’d known for this. I had even left my mother, who I might never see again. Resolved, I jammed my foot between the door and its frame. “Please,” I said politely but firmly. “Let me inside.”

He didn’t have to. He could have picked me up with one hand and tossed me into the street. But something—my certainty, I think, or my passion—caused him to relent. “In with you, then,” he said. 

This is the opening to a short story I’m working on. It’s called “Foul Case.” Would love any feedback!

“You’re going to Hell, then,” Mother said, her lined face turned not toward me but the knitting in her lap. 

We were in the drawing room; the thick curtains had been opened to let in the gentle midwinter light. My throat tightened. I knew the gravity of what I intended to do, that I would be leaving all this—the familiar portraits hanging on the light green walls, the chandelier suspended above us, and, most of all, her—behind. 

 ”Chicago isn’t Hell,” I finally managed to say. She said nothing. There was no sound but the clink of her needles.

 After a few moments, I left the room, easing the door shut behind me. 

# # #

Six weeks later, I arrived in Chicago only to realize Mother may have been right after all. It was a cramped city, teeming with people; I was told the population had more than tripled in the past ten years, something I could easily credit. People were everywhere, shouting from carriages, stepping over dead horses, relieving themselves against buildings. Everything was in motion. The buildings themselves were in motion, as crews worked to lift them so that sewers could be installed; meanwhile, the streets ran thick with waste. 

Still, I’d made my choice: I had left behind the pampered life that had been planned for me to make my own way in the bustling city. (I tried not to think too hard about the fact that I possessed, hidden in a small compartment at the back of my trunk, a significant amount of money, none of it earned by my own hands). Chicago isn’t Hell, I told myself as I pointedly ignored the cry of a rail-thin demimondaine. Chicago is a forge. 

As soon as I’d obtained lodgings, unpacked my trunk, and forced down a meal, I set off in search of Wolfings Press. I’m ashamed to admit now that I expected something grand, with marble floors and cavernous ceilings. What I found, of course, was something much humbler: a weathered building crammed between a tannery and a dingy general store. The home of the press lacked even an address; only the sight of a wolf atop a hill, etched into a modest sign, assured me that I was in the right place.

I rapped twice. 

”What?” The voice was thunderous. 

I steeled myself before responding. “I’m here to meet David Elsted, proprietor of the Wolfings Press.”

Silence followed. I had just raised my fist to rap again when the door swung open. Standing before me was not the elegant figure I in my ignorance had expected, but a squat, thickly muscled man with thinning black hair and a furious expression. “Name,” he demanded, staring.    

“William Fitzpatrick.” I braced myself for an anti-Irish tirade. It wouldn’t be the first I’d endured.

“Purpose.” 

 ”Look, might I come inside?” 

 “Purpose.” He was gripping the door handle so tightly I thought it might come off in his hands.

I sighed. “I’ve come to work for you.” He made to slam the door, but I caught it. “You needn’t worry about payment; I don’t ask for any. All I ask is for the chance to learn.” 

He ran his huge right hand through what remained of his hair and looked Heavenward, as if for aid. “I’m not in the business of teaching,” he said. “I’m in the business of print.” 

Perhaps the wise thing to do would have been to leave; it was clear he didn’t want me there. But I’d left everything I’d known for this. I had even left my mother, who I might never see again. Resolved, I jammed my foot between the door and its frame. “Please,” I said politely but firmly. “Let me inside.”

He didn’t have to. He could have picked me up with one hand and tossed me into the street. But something—my certainty, I think, or my passion—caused him to relent. “In with you, then,” he said.

As the boat approached the dock, Michael saw standing at the bottom of the library steps the imposing figure of the librarian. Uncomfortably aware of the man’s gaze, Michael stood, causing the boat to rock slightly and raising a series of muttered curses from the boatman. “Sorry,” Michael whispered. As the dock grew closer, the librarian didn’t unfold his arms, shout hello, or—at least as far as Michael could tell—even blink. He just stood there in his heavy gray robe, hood pushed back to reveal his bald head, and waited, implacable as fate. 

The boat bumped against the dock. Michael gave a coin to the boatman, who nodded in acknowledgment before heaving Michael’s sack of belongings onto the dock. Not without some effort, Michael stepped onto it himself. He had never been graceful, and the unwavering gaze of the librarian didn’t exactly help matters.

“My name is Ioannes,” said the monk. He had a deep voice, like a stone rolling to seal off the entrance to a tomb.

“And I am—”

“You are to follow.” The monk turned and, without waiting, began to walk up the marble steps. Michael, slinging his bag over one shoulder, hurried behind him. The building was enormous, as big as any he had ever seen, barring cathedrals. Glass and marble mosaics had been set into walls which rose to a lovely white-blue dome. As he stepped through the entrance, he saw out of the corner of his eye a mosaic depicting a knight so beautiful as to be almost feminine, his face twisted in agony.

At the other end of the cavernous, two tall, white doors, their edges gilded in silver, beckoned. Behind them, Michael knew, books waited. He could almost feel them tugging at his sleeves, begging to be opened. But the librarian steered him not toward those doors but to a small room to the side. He sat at a small table and waited until Michael had done the same.

Ioannes stared. Every inch of him seemed sculpted. Beneath the grey robe, Michael knew, his body would be sculpted, polished by the immense rigors of his role. Black books tattooed on the back of his seven fingers symbolized eloquently the nature of his work.

Finally, Ioannes spoke. “Each book in this library is worth more than your life.”

Michael could do nothing but nod.

“Should you damage a book,” he continued, “I will damage you.” He held up his left hand; two fingers were entirely missing, and a third had been severed at the knuckle. “What you see here is the result of my own mistakes. My master was merciful. I am not. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Michael said. He could hardly get the word out. Below the desk, his legs had started to tremble.

“You will be fed bad food, and too little of it. You will go to bed hungry and rise hungry the next day. You will laboriously copy books loaned to us by other libraries, some in languages you cannot read; you will copy them exactly, with not the barest hint of an error. You will cease these labors only when retrieving a book for a scholar. You may choose to allow him or her to take the book from the library. If you do, and it is lost, or returned in imperfect shape, I will visit my displeasure upon you in ways you are unlikely to be grateful for.

“At night, you will return to a hard bed, where you will sleep covered by an inadequate blanket. In the morning, you will leave that bed before you want to. The stretch between leaving your bed and returning to it will consist largely of difficult and thankless work. You will yearn for human company, which few will be inclined to provide. You will not be loved. But you will do your work with honor.”

Michael forced his hands to unclench themselves. “Yes,” he managed to say. “I’ll do this. I accept.”

To his astonishment, Ioannes smiled. But the smile quickly disappeared. “You misunderstand me. There was never any question of acceptance. You accepted when you walked through the door.”

I’ve never visited Chicago’s Lyric Opera before; it’s time.

I’m trying to decide between Don Giovanni and Don Pasquale. Can you help?

https://www.lyricopera.org/shows/upcoming/2026-27-season/

Your manuscript needs to be as strong and clean as you can make it. Readers, agents, editors: they have so many books to choose from. Saying no is very easy.

If you don’t know how commas work (hint: they don’t just indicate pauses), you’re making it even easier for someone to stop reading. That’s true of everything. Dangling participles, unnecessary words, unclear motivation, pointless dialogue…You don’t need to be perfect, but you need to be very good. And shouldn’t this be true? It’s art, after all.

If you’re writing for yourself, ignore what I’ve said. But if you want others to take your work seriously, you need to.

You’ll often hear people say, “Just let people read what they want.” Or, “people should be allowed to read what they want.” But…they are!

No one’s stopping them. See someone reading a book in public, and it’s probably romantasy. Something like 2% of books sold are literary. It’s not even a contest. If you’re a commercial fiction fan, good news: you won.

What they really mean, of course, is “don’t criticize me for what I read.” And I agree with that. But SOME people—not all—mean “no book is better than another.” Sorry. Can’t agree there.

I didn’t come into this as a Nolan fanboy. I couldn’t give less of a shit about Batman, for instance.

And I love the poem. Not just Wilson’s translation, but Fagles’, too. And Fitzgerald’s—maybe his most of all.

And…I absolutely loved the movie. I’ve seen lots of criticisms—some valid and some not—but this is a magnificent film. Fuck the haters.

What would be nice: if she only covered other artists’ songs.

What will happen: she’ll play “Love Story,“ “Wood,” others.

What would be hilarious: her playing any of her many victim complex songs.

For how long can a comedian be at their best? Seems to me that there’s a relatively short window.

Chris Rock: the GREATEST for a few years. Still good, but no longer THE guy.

Same with Louis: still like him, but some of the freshness has worn off. Chapelle. Shane Gillis is currently my favorite, but after listening to a lot of podcast episodes, I feel like I know his moves.

Jeselnik surprise anyone anymore? Not me. Nikki’s great but maybe not at her peak.

Is it just me? I still like these people, but seems like comedians are not like authors (long careers) but pop stars (brief, spectacular periods of being at their best).

2016 Tiguan, 90,000 miles. Parking brake came on when I was cleaning the car and now won’t release. Red PARK engine light is on. When I press the brake button, the light blinks.

Any thoughts on a likely cause and cost of repair?

Great food, man. Have you been? If so, what’s the best dish you’ve had there?

So, when Taylor was young, an interviewer asked her if it’s true that she includes the names of her exes in her songs. She admitted that she did.

When older, though, she said she doesn’t ever want to reveal the names, so audiences can feel they’re about THEIR exes, not hers.

Has she ever acknowledged that she changed her approach? It seems to me something happened at a certain point. At first, she liked letting people in, but then the scrutiny got to be too much. Which I get.