Christopher Clark in the LRB:
For more than fifty years, Perry Anderson has been the most erudite and compelling voice on the British Marxist left. His writing has always been marked by prodigious reading across the widest possible front, a commitment to clarity and analytical rigour, and fidelity to a materialist reading of history. The style is cool and forensic, its austere surfaces set off by a sprinkling of recherché locutions (mouvance, primum movens, suppressio veri, suggestio falsi, coup de main, plumpes Denken, kataplexis, animus pugnandi, lapsus calami, ante diem, to cite just a few from this book). Two great works of historical synthesis, Passages from Antiquity to Feudalism and Lineages of the Absolutist State, both published in 1974, earned Anderson wide renown for the brilliance and complexity of their conceptual architecture, though the empirical soundness of their arguments was challenged by some historical specialists. The epochal disappointments of the 1980s, when it became clear that the political hopes of the radical left were not going to be realised any time soon, had a muting effect. The mordancy of the early decades made way for the realism of the mature Anderson style, marked by long and probing critical essays focused on individual issues and thinkers.
There was a mid-19th-century moment when critics emerged as arbiters of the present, applying a science of discernment whose purposes were no less (and sometimes were more) ambitious than those of the works they examined. Anderson is a critic in this mould. His attention falls not just on works, but also on the persons who fashion them. This is not because he is in the business of augmenting or destroying reputations, but because he sees writing as a way of being active in the world.
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When asked why he didn’t begin writing novels until his 30s, the celebrated Czech author Milan Kundera said he didn’t have the requisite experience when he was younger. “This jerk that I was, I wouldn’t like to see him,” he added. Many of us look back at our former selves and wince to recall our immaturity. We vary quite a lot in the degree to which we feel friendly toward, and connected to, both our former and our future selves. Psychologists call this trait self-continuity, and suggest that it carries enormous weight in determining our long-term well-being.
My New Year’s resolutions have always had one thing in common: They’ve been all about me. Some years I’ve vowed to pick up my high school French again; some years I’ve sworn off impulse shopping; and some years (OK, every year) I’ve promised myself I’d go to bed earlier. The goal, though, has always been the same: to become a better, happier version of myself. But while there’s nothing wrong with self-improvement, experts say that focusing on our relationships with the people around us may go a long way to making us happier.
Percival Everett’s first novel was published in 1983. How long ago was that? It was same year Madonna, R.E.M. and Metallica released their first albums. Much of the world has only recently begun to catch up with him.
Boyle’s treatment of Goethe’s readings and uses of Kant would make for a tidy monograph in itself. As would Boyle’s analysis of Goethe’s studies and experiments in optics, in the meaning and structure of light. The conclusions drawn were erroneous, but it has been argued that the treatise on colours, the Farbenlehre, is a stylistic, intellectual masterpiece at the heart of Goethe’s achievements. An achievement relating Goethe to Spinoza on the one hand, and to various schools of light-mysticism, of ‘illuminism’ in a literal vein, both Western and Oriental (Persian doctrines and literature fascinated Goethe).
Regular people in countries like Bolivia depend on imported food and fuel for their daily lives. To import food and fuel you need dollars — or some other international currency like euros or yen or yuan or whatever. Bolivia can get dollars two ways — by selling exports or by selling bonds. If it doesn’t sell enough exports — for example, if gas prices drop and its exports are worth less — it has to sell bonds in order to keep importing.
At what point does an aside become a tangent, a tangent a digression, a digression a meander, a meander a ramble, a ramble a circumlocution, a circumlocution an excursus and an excursus a cul-de-sac? The reader has time to consider such matters while reading A.N. Wilson’s elastic-waisted but hardly unintelligent new biography, “Goethe: His Faustian Life.”
One Hundred Years of Solitude has a near-mythical status for me that no other book does. Aged about 14, bored one day during the summer holidays, I found the Picador 1978 paperback edition on my parents’ bookshelf. I opened it on a whim, and read one of the most iconic first sentences in existence: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.” I immediately sat down on the sofa and read for a further three hours. I date my life as a reader of literature to that afternoon, to that first sentence which I still know by heart. I have since reread it only once, 10 years later, because I wanted to wait until I had forgotten what happens. I’ll read it again as soon as the details have once more faded from my memory, and I can’t wait.
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“Looking back on it, we did used to say, it’s like a divorce,” Paul McCartney reflected on the Beatles’ breakup, now a marathon heading into its fifth year. “It really was like that, but four fellas trying to divorce instead of a man and a woman. And then you get four sets of lawyers instead of just two. All of that kind of stuff was not making life easy at all.” At the moment, the lawyers were not the problem.
Artificial intelligence often gets criticized because it makes up information that appears to be factual, known as 
Written toward the end of Franz Kafka’s life, “Investigations of a Dog” is one of the lesser-known and most enigmatic works in the author’s oeuvre. Kafka didn’t give the story a title, writing it in the autumn of 1922 but leaving it unpublished and unfinished. It was published posthumously in 1931 in a collection edited by his friend and biographer Max Brod, who named it Forschungen eines Hundes — which could also be translated as “Researches of a Dog,” to give it a more academic ring.