Articles
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3 weeks ago |
the-tls.co.uk | Lisa Hilton |Caroline Moorehead |Lawrence Douglas |Ben Hutchinson
“Few passions are constant, but many are sincere”. The maxim is by the Marquis de Vauvenargues, one-time proprietor of the Provençal chateau where Pablo Picasso and his second wife, Jacqueline Roque, lived between 1959 and 1961, and where they are buried. Speaking to his first wife, Olga Khokhlova, the artist’s mother was blunter on the vagaries of love: “I don’t believe any woman would be happy with my son.
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3 weeks ago |
thespectator.com | Dylan Neri |Arabella Byrne |Lisa Hilton |Philip Hensher
There’s a scene in Evelyn Waugh’s The Loved One in which a magazine’s advice columnist “the Guru Brahmin” (in fact “two gloomy men and a bright young secretary”) receives yet another letter from a compulsive nail-biter: “What did we advise her last time?” Mr. Slump, the chain-smoking drunk, asks.
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4 weeks ago |
thespectator.com | Lisa Hilton |Arabella Byrne |Alice Jolly |Leyla Sanai
On November 18, 1910, 300 women marched on the Houses of Parliament to demand the right to vote. Their protest was met with shameless brutality: punches, kicks, beatings and sexual assault from policemen and male bystanders.
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1 month ago |
thespectator.com | Alice Jolly |Chloë Ashby |Christian House |Lisa Hilton
In May 1940, as the Nazis invade Belgium, the residents of a sedate apartment block in Place Brugmann, Brussels, wake to find that their longtime neighbors, the Raphaëls, have disappeared. Alice Austen uses this moment as the starting point for her subtle debut novel, 33 Place Brugmann, about how a diverse group of Belgians react to the Nazi occupation. She tells her story in snapshots, writing in the multiple first-person voices of those who remain at 33 Place Brugmann and those who flee.
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Oct 30, 2024 |
the-tls.co.uk | James Robins |Conrad Landin |Lisa Hilton |Justin Webb
In that interlude between 1933 and 1941, when not much was going on in the world, “unquestionably the nastiest looking bit of work that ever dropped on to a breakfast table”, in the words of its editor, was a newsletter called the Week. Rancid brown ink, stamped on standard ecru typewriter paper, filed out to a tiny subscriber list in drab envelopes: that’s what you got for twelve shillings a year. But it was good value.
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