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It’s the best of times, it’s the worst of times. There are two posters behind the glass walls of the new tram stop in a suburb synonymous with wealth and privilege. One poster is for Lurpak Butter with a glistening, mouth-watering roast lamb being topped with fresh glazed
The street curves into the coming night. There’s a faint sound of someone playing a piano coming from a house, notes and chords and melody rippling through the air. A song intoning the heavens. A haunting song. A love song. From inside the house, someone is playing Nick Cave’
Monday is the busiest day to visit the Magic Kingdom with an average wait time of thirty-eight minutes. Not that visitors seem to mind. Sure people can buy a one-time fast pass to bypass the standby line for a popular attraction. But they don’t care because they’re all
Rachel Kushner’s dispassionate novel has all the makings of an existential spy thriller. There’s a cynical undercover agent, a mysterious sage who communicates only by email and a radical commune of eco-anarchists scratching out an existence in rural southwest France. The undercover agent is a cocksure Sadie Smith.
Up in the sky, it’s like a miracle. The sun is setting and the clouds above the horizon have heaved and shifted and parted to create a giant sun-filled crucifix, steaming rays of golden light. It’s only for a moment. And then it’s gone.