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Tom Gauld’s new cartoon about who, besides the writers, writes novels. Commissioned for The New Yorker, brilliant as always.
Via You’re All Just Jealous of My Jetpack.
More cartoons to explore:
[ef-archive number=5 tag=”cartoons”]
A team from the University of Reading conducted an experiment to assess the detectability of AI-generated academic work.
Barbara Kingsolver and Percival Everett have been announced the winners at the 75th National Book Awards, during a ceremony gala held on November 20, in New York.
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Amazon now displays the number of units sold in the past month – and it’s a great way to analyze how people buy the Kindle.
25 finalists of the National Book Awards 2024, have been revealed by the National Book Foundation and New York Times.
by ELIZABETH GILBERT
Once upon a time, there was a man named Jack Gilbert, who was not related to me – unfortunately for me.
Jack Gilbert was a great poet, but if you’ve never heard of him, don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault. He never much cared about being known. But I knew about him, and I loved him dearly from a respectful distance, so let me tell you about him.
Jack Gilbert was born in Pittsburgh in 1925 and grew up in the midst of that city’s smoke, noise, and industry. He worked in factories and steel mills as a young man, but was called from an early age to write poetry. He answered the call without hesitation. He became a poet the way other men become monks: as a devotional practice, as an act of love, and as a lifelong commitment to the search for grace and transcendence. I think this is probably a very good way to become a poet. Or to become anything, really, that calls to your heart and brings you to life.
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