Corey Robin’s thread on this is, thus far, the best piece of writing I’ve happened across on this whole mess: Sober, calm, and deeply considered.

Can I just say that it’s tremendously cool that Asia owns an Italian translation of anything by Gustav Meyrink (who’s woefully unappreciated these days, in English, despite having written, bar-none, the best ever work of fiction about golems)?

I’m voting for “Ravachol”. 

I want my bath-safe board-book version of Rosa Luxemburg’s Junius Pamphlet. Now.

Hot damn, I loved JC in that movie where torture I mean enhanced interrogation finally leads us to Bin Laden even though we’re all torn apart inside at having had to do it but there you go and at the end Maya stands over the corpse with her hair just cascading down and tossed so gently by the wind off the desert and…

Listen up, chump: Cheapness is active malice. As a former employee of Dalkey Archive Press (look it up), I know whereof I speak.

David Lynch is clearly at large, hopped up on Adderall and/or extremely bored in the American midwest.

Whenever anyone asks you“What good are the humanities?” your answer should include a link to this post. We need more, infinitely more, and finer, descriptions—descriptions by women—of sex, both good and bad; assaultive and consensual; straightforward and confusing. We need serious, detailed, affective descriptions of…

Listen, I’m a feline-lover. But, respectfully: Can we all put the larger issue aside for a bit and, banding together, encourage Franzen to pursue his anti-cat advocacy full time (I mean, really full time - like, 24/7), in the interest of Literature? I mean, let’s get him real busy before he decides to write another…

Fuck you, Globe. It’s impossible to clean siding without a pressure washer, and we all know it. Don’t make us look like twits. 

Wait, wait. Is this fucker set in San Jose?!! Is there any local love? I used to watch Silicon Valley just for the background. Endless khaki sprawl. Dehydrated leonine hillsides. Pebbledashed corporate campuses. I’m about to fly back for the holidays, for the first time in two years. Please tell me they’re doing my…

The design’s a little blah, as is—but put out a pair of those fuckers in Persian or Turkish Angora, and I’m sold!

Yes! Okay! It sucks ass, generally, and I’m glad I’m gone! But what about the wonderfully skeezy old mammiform Century Theaters adjacent to the aforesaid Mystery House? (Or have they been rehabilitated/demolished by now? I haven’t been back to California in, like, forever.) What about the Haunted Toys Backwards-R Us?…

Apologies. One’s vocabulary fails.

How about this: Our nation is a fucking disgrace. Fuck this shit. Seriously.

Tom Cotton has the longest fucking arms I’ve ever seen. And, I mean, I have long arms. I have long arms. But those arms are long. Like, pignut-pickin’ long. Are those arms long? Yes, they are. Indeed.

But the longer I look at that quote, the less confidant I feel.

I mean, my assumption is that he was throwing shade.

Does this explain why N. once described D. as “Norman Rockwell’s twin brother kidnapped by gypsies in babyhood”? Possibly!

First of all, fuck Richard Spencer sideways; no pity for the man. But ethical debates aside, it may be worth remembering how an ascendant far-right tends to make use of violence emerging from the left. This asshat isn’t Horst Wessel, yet—but what if the next masked-and-anonymous avenger happens to have a screwdriver…