Books & Ideas

 

 

 

Dressed in a simple tunic, carrying only his slingshot and a sack of stones, a poor shepherd boy approached the nine-foot-tall giant.

With courage and a steady hand, David slung one small stone right smack at Goliath’s head, knocking out the Philistine’s war hero.

It’s a tale most are familiar with and at the forefront of the underdog mentality, said liberal theologian Harvey Cox.

“We like the underdog,” said Mr. Cox. “That’s why everyone in the Boston area despises the New York Yankees.”

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Poet Terrance Hayes, a former college basketball player, prepares for all of his readings as if they were basketball games. “I have got to bring my A-game,” he said. “If you score by making dunks, or even if you are playing great defense, people can be appreciative of what you are doing if you are doing it in an exceptional way.”
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My mom is trying to ruin my life. A simple sentence that has become a catchphrase for generations of young people. But one of these life-ruining moms recently embraced her status and wrote a children’s book in honor of her role as the so-called villain in her daughter’s life.

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There are all manner of real-world characters who escape to Martha’s Vineyard — to start a new life, to get away from their old one or simply to enjoy the Island. Some are accomplished lawyers, some are alcoholics, some are philanderers, some failed husbands. Jake Dellahunt, Vineyard Lawyer, with an office on the Cape, happens to be all of those.

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Author Jennifer Egan had a particularly memorable Vineyard visit three summers ago. While working on revisions to her novel, A Visit from the Goon Squad, she decided to add a chapter in the form of a PowerPoint presentation. As a result she spent her vacation pouring over computer slides, running from Aquinnah to Oak Buffs to print out and ship her work — and then running, literally, to the beach.

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Dipping our bread in oil tins

we talked of morning peeling

open our rooms to a moment

of almonds, olives and wind

when we did not yet know what we were.

The days in Mallorca were alike:

footprints down goat-paths

from the beds we had left,

at night the stars locked to darkness.

At that time we were learning

to dance, take our clothes

in our fingers and open

ourselves to their hands.

The veranera was with us.

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