Posts Tagged: Rachel Kushner
Simply put, there is no theory without struggle. Struggle is the condition of possibility for theory. And struggle is produced by workers themselves.
At The New Republic, Rachel Kushner introduces the newly translated 1971 Italian novel We Want Everything by Nanni Balestrini, which takes place during a period of rapid industrialization in Northern Italy during the late 60s and inspired the novel to take on an entirely new structure in fiction....more
PEN America announced on Sunday their intention to honor Charlie Hebdo’s surviving staff with the Freedom of Expression Courage award at their May 5 Gala. The novelists Peter Carey, Michael Ondaatje, Francine Prose, Teju Cole, Rachel Kushner, and Taiye Selasi have withdrawn as hosts of the ceremony, claiming the French magazine promotes hate speech and racism....more
My aspiration to spend time at sea as requisite literary training died long ago, as a teenager, on a white-knuckled ferry ride to Elba during a torrential rainstorm. Not only was I seasick, I saw the population on board as hostile competitors to salvation.
Despite the challenges writers face with debut novels, the second novel is generally considered the most difficult to write. Some second novels fail to exceed the first, and plenty of authors never even write a second novel. But we might be living in the golden age of sophomore novels, declares Bill Morris over at The Millions....more
Here is the complete list of finalists for the National Book Award in the fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and young adult categories.
The finalists include Rumpus interviewee Rachel Kushner and Rumpus book club participant George Saunders—plus one of the judges in the young adult category is our Letters for Kids editor Cecil Castellucci!...more
Rachel Kushner’s The Flamethrowers is full of energy. It is about people carving out their own worldviews into the established façade of the world. The artists in New York and the protesters in Italy are moving toward something different—something, if not more genuine, then at least more acceptable to their own sense of reality....more
She floated above my desk with a grave, almost murderous look, war paint on her cheeks, blonde braids framing her face, the braids a frolicsome countertone to her intensity. The paint on her cheeks, not frolicsome. The streaks of it, dripping down, were cold, white shards, as if her face were faceted in icicles.