“The moment when I can work no more, when the novel or collection of short stories or book-length essay is as done as it’ll ever be, I go looking for works of art that match it tonally. I listen to music with an acquisitive ear. I watch pieces of movies whose titles intrigue me. Most of all, I scan through dozens of websites that collect images by contemporary artists. And then I try to solidify the relationship by using those works as my cover art.” The New Yorker’s Ben Greenman on choosing the cover art for his books.
Jo Freeman, a feminist writer and activist who worked with Firestone from the beginning, said at the memorial, ‘When I think back on Shulie’s contribution to the movement, I think of her as a shooting star. She flashed brightly across the midnight sky, and then she disappeared.’
At The New Yorker, Susan Faludi writes on the legacy of Shulamith Firestone.
The author, whose novels thrum with ironic recurrences, might have been perversely pleased with this: thirty-six years after his death and twenty-two years after the fall of the Soviet Union with all its khudsovets, Vladimir Nabokov is, once again, controversial.
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