For Merleau-Ponty, we are never separate from the world. On the contrary, we are part of the world. In fact, we can only partake of the world, only know the world, precisely because we are made of the same stuff as the world. In his own words, we are part of the 'flesh.'
In his great essay, "Ch
Louise Erdrich is one of those multifaceted writers who can deftly maneuver the demands of poet, novelist and critic. Succeeding in both critically and popularly in each category, her work has established her at the forefront of the "Native American Renaissance". Accordingly, many have compared he
Just a guy with a blog (or five) and a love of film, liquids and words. Like WSB, I eat images. Like everybody else, I keep getting older; I just happen to write about it, from a particular angle, on the internet where everybody can see. Sometimes people pay me to write things. I also make little mov
There is a particular grunt, sputter, and song in a Heaney poem: "Perch on their water perch hung in the clear Bann River/Near the clay bank in alder dapple and waver." This is another poet in love with his language -- specifically, the cadences of the Irish tongue. The sounds of clattering, bumping,