A Very Cold Winter

A Very Cold Winter, by Fausta Cialente, translated from the Italian by Julia Nelsen (Transit). This novel, the first of the undersung writer’s books to appear in English, opens in 1946, just as winter is descending on Milan. An extended family of nine is preparing to hunker down in an attic apartment, a dilapidated space “divided up with curtains and partitions.” Though they share tight quarters, the family members—siblings, cousins, in-laws—are all preoccupied by disparate fixations. An omniscient narrator roves through the characters’ perspectives, illuminating their individual desires—to become an actor and a writer, to marry and to move out. Trapped “in the middle of a barren, frozen plain, without horizons,” a reality for which winter is not solely to blame, the family contends with what it means to move on in the aftermath of war. The New Yorker

The Dark Side of Kodak

In her new book, Tales of a Militant Chemistry, Alice Lovejoy ’01 tells a different kind of war story, about the role film companies themselves played in developing weapons of war. At the same time the United States was fighting Nazi Germany, her book reveals, film giant Kodak was fighting its chief rival, German film and chemical company Agfa, both contributing to their respective war efforts. [...]

Later, the U.S. military asked Kodak to help enrich uranium for the Manhattan Project using centrifuges at its chemical subsidiary, Tennessee Eastman. At the same time, rival Agfa was producing chemical weapons in Germany, using forced labor from concentration camps.

Kodak continued its relationship with the military after the war, helping photograph nuclear tests in Nevada. When radioactive particles showed up while developing film at company headquarters in Rochester, New York, Kodak became part of a secret network of sites to test the flow of harmful radioactive fallout in the atmosphere, even as the larger public was kept in the dark.

“You can see the tension that exists between producing these technologies and living with the consequences of them,” says Lovejoy. Those are questions we’re still grappling with, she says, adding that some factories involved in cell phone production use rare earth minerals from war-torn areas. “It’s part of a larger history about what produces media and what it might mean to make industries more ethical and sustainable.” Michael Blanding, The Brown Alumni Magazine

il libro di cui si parla è: Alice Lovejoy, Tales of a Militant Chemistry (University of California Press). 

 

Neighbors

For as long as we’ve had homes, we’ve had neighbors—which is to say, we’ve had neighbor problems. [...] 

This kind of conflict—heightened, in modern times, by the advent of the doorbell camera and the erosion of the social contract—is the stuff of “Neighbors,” a new documentary series on HBO created by Dylan Redford (grandson of Robert) and Harrison Fishman (ancestry unknown). The show focusses on disputes between homeowners that, in many cases, have evolved into debilitating, years-long feuds. Tyler Foggatt, The New Yorker

International Booker Prize 2026 Longlist

 “Many of the submitted books examined the devastating consequences of war, which is reflected in our longlist,” said judging chair and novelist Natasha Brown. “The list also features petty squabbles between neighbours, mysterious mountain villages, big pharma conspiracies, witchy women, ill-fated lovers, a haunted prison, and obscure film references. The page counts range from ‘pocket-friendly’ to ‘doorstopper’. And while the books’ original publication dates span four decades, each story feels fresh and innovative.” Ella Creamer, The Guardian

Hamartia

One of the most consequential misunderstandings in the history of literary criticism turns on a single Greek word. In Aristotle’s Poetics, that word is hamartia. It is usually rendered, in classrooms and handbooks, as “tragic flaw,” and on that translation an entire tradition of reading tragedy has been erected. Yet if we return to Aristotle’s Greek and trace the word’s history with some philological care, it becomes clear that this familiar formula rests on a slow but decisive mistranslation—less an error at a single moment than a long cultural drift in which a term meaning “mistake” gradually hardened into a doctrine of moral defect.

In classical Greek, hamartia belongs to the language of action rather than character. Its root sense is concrete and kinetic: to miss one’s mark, as an archer misses the target. By extension, it denotes an error, a misjudgment, a false step... Jonathan Bate, Jonathan Bat's Literary Remains

e, per finire febbraio e l'inverno, una bella foto della grande nevicata a Providence, in RI

 

 

Fawning

It is the afternoon of the fawn. Everywhere you turn, in workplaces and households alike, yearlings with saucer eyes, brown felt noses, and stilt-like legs are wondering if you’re mad at them. The fawn response, as it’s known in some precincts of social media, bundles various forms of ingratiating, people-pleasing behavior. It can manifest in threatening situations, where expressing authentic emotion could elicit a powerful person’s wrath or cruelty, or it might be more banal: laughing at a vindictive supervisor’s unfunny joke, saying you love a gift when you don’t, laboring over the perfect string of whimsical emojis to append to an opinion that you’ve expressed over text. Katy Waldman, The New Yorker

fawning, un termine che non conoscevo per un concetto che conosco molto bene. L'IA lo definisce in questo modo: a survival response where someone tries to stay safe by pleasing, appeasing, or agreeing with others—especially people perceived as threatening or powerful. Quale potrebbe essere la traduzione italiana? Sempre l'IA suggerisce: compiacenza, servilismo, adulazione, sottomissione accomodante, comportamento remissivo. Io aggiungerei anche leccaculaggine 

The New Yorker Story

All my life, I’ve heard about this thing, “the New Yorker story”. I hadn’t investigated this term in depth, but I understood it to mean “a short story that is meandering, plotless, and slight—full of middle-class people discussing their relentlessly banal problems”. Woman of Letters

un lunghissimo articolo (troppo lungo! ma interessante) che fa la storia delle storie del New Yorker, da come e quando hanno cominciato ad apparire sulla rivista, alla loro evoluzione, e soprattutto cerca di definire i tratti che le contraddistinguono.

Departure(s)

Julian Barnes tells us that this is his final book, so that’s one departure accounted for – the last instalment of a writing career spanning 45 years, encompassing novels and short stories, memoirs and essays, biography, travel writing, translation and even a little pseudonymous detective fiction. Many of these works turn up here, whether obliquely or overtly, referred to through subject matter, style, tone or connotation; in the contemporary cultural argot, which Barnes is fond of examining, these writerly winks might be known as Easter eggs. Alex Clark, The Guardian

Departure(s) by Julian Barnes is published by Jonathan Cape. 

triste! 

Ai Weiwei On Censorship

Given that there can be few contemporary artists who have thought more about censorship – its goals, techniques, efficacy – than Ai, it’s inevitable this new book, which runs to fewer than 90 pages, will be read as his distilled wisdom on the topic. Censorship, he asserts, is no new phenomenon: during the Shang dynasty (1600-1046BC) a saying emerged – “the great affairs of the state are worship and military bases”.

But Ai’s main argument is that censorship is neither a uniquely Chinese phenomenon, nor something confined to “countries defined as autocratic and authoritarian”. In the west – “the so-called free world”, with its “ostensibly democratic societies” – free speech is a chimera, regulated through “more covert, more deceptive and more corrosive” means. Flexing his rhetoric, he describes censorship “as both an indispensable tool of mental enslavement and a fundamental source of political corruption”. Sukhdev Sandhu, The Guardian

On Censorship by Ai Weiwei is published by Thames & Hudson 

Sigmund Freud’s begonia

 

This story started in March. A friend sent me a link to a small British movie she’d worked on that hadn’t yet been released. It had been shot in Wales over 18 days on a tiny budget, and as the closing credits rolled, my tearful husband [Richard Curtis] said he thought it was one of the best British films of all time. We offered to host a screening and invited anyone we knew with media influence to watch the masterpiece that is The Ballad of Wallis Island to help spread the word.

A few weeks later, the co-writer and star of the film, Tom Basden, arrived with a thank-you gift: a plastic pot with a leafy stick in the middle. To be honest, I’d have preferred a scented candle, but I was touched that he’d brought it.

Tom then told me the story of the plant. This scrubby little sprig was a cutting from his begonia, which had started life as a cutting given to him by his father-in-law, the writer Barry Walsh, who had been given his plant as a cutting by the casting director Corinne Rodriguez in 2017. Corinne’s begonia had grown from a cutting of a plant grown from one given to her by the actor Sally Miles in the 1970s. Sally’s had started life as a cutting she was given by the opera singer Kirsten Flagstad in the 50s. And Kirsten had been given her cutting in the 30s by her dear friend … Sigmund Freud.

So there I was, moving from apathy to disbelief, holding the same plant my great-grandfather Sigmund had nurtured nearly 100 years ago. Emma Freud, The Observer

una bella storia!