“Jokes paint with broad strokes, while poems are more ambiguous and subtle. But perhaps the gap between a gag and a Shakespeare sonnet is not so wide as first imagined.”
What’s worse–selling blood or writing manuscript rejection letters? Writers talk about their most soul-killing day jobs.
Eight surprising celebrity poets. Or eight surprising “celebrity” poets. Or eight surprising celebrity “poets.” Frankly, eight is the only word safe from snark-quotes.
Is anyone else incredibly uncomfortable with knowing so much about David Foster Wallace’s inner life? You can read the notes he made in his personal collection of self-help books–which, in an odd (and, let’s face it, mortifying) turn of events, won’t be available to the public after all.
A self-help book for women surfaces from 1740. Watch out, ladies: Having impure thoughts is “a deflowering of the mind.”
If a small poetry press asks for financial support from its authors, is it a vanity press? The Great BlazeVOX Debate continues.
Documentary filmmaker Errol Morris’s book about photographs, perception, and truth.
Speaking of perception, want a door? This one leads to Greenwich Village in the 1920s.