dubuque & fairchild
Don DeLillo's bum luck: a meditation on how, in this late age, not even major authors can reach the rock-star status enjoyed by the likes of Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal in their heydays. The article's pessimism is a bit overwrought, though—DeLillo's status seems more enviable to me than that of his predecessors. Consider how many times Mailer and Vidal have made idiots out of themselves in public. Actually, have they been doing much else for the past few decades?
Run Lola Run's Tom Tykwer and Franka Potente are back with The Princess and the Warrior. Flawed, they say, but still worth seeing, in like four months when the film finally makes it to Iowa.
I am moved in, nearly. For the first time in a year I have an actual bed to sleep in. I'd guess that this house is close to a century old, right beside the university. I can practically spit and hit the Workshop building from my window. I have a lovely view of giant sun-dappled trees through glass warped with age, framed by deep brown woodwork. It actually feels like an artist's flat, in contrast with the last apartment, which felt like a motel. I came back from Marlowe's at six-thirty this morning; the sun had already been up for almost an hour on this near-longest day of the year. The air was cool and a mist hung over the Iowa River, thin wisps of white cirrus hovering wraithlike a foot above the surface of the water. I had never seen it before.
