A friend from an old job asked me to review another book, for their in-house publication. Last time, the book was something like the vanity project of a retired historian. This time, it seems to be part of the valedictory housekeeping of a late-career philosopher. Which might be why I found it annoying to read. The book didn't seem like it needed to be read, i.e., needed to be said; it seemed as if the author had come to the point where he was publishing everything, and he also had this around (for decades, he notes, as an accompaniment to his duties teaching Wittgenstein). Reviewing such a book for a non-philosophical publication felt freeing. But I was freed for something which it's a shame I even need to feel free to do. Essentially, I reviewed like a reader: I held the book accountable not for its arguments, its scholarship, or whatever, but for its readability; for my responses to it as a reader. Why should it feel so out of place to require that a book be something you want to read?

'She's 36 and still sleeping on floors…'

'Fall quarter was just a tall order.'

Tom Ewing's Popular turns 10.

'Could I become a different person here?'

20 Years of Sonic Youth

Good Cop, Bad Cop

A handsome woman in a minidress with a big, big dog.

Not to feel for fear of being undone by the least feeling.