In the realm of poetry and film, the literary internet is examining how we view the figure of the poet. Three recent films offer differing perspectives on the poetic life, prompting a discussion on whether our cultural obsession with the "tortured artist" still holds weight. Meanwhile, Eric Amling’s new poem, "Cruise Control," provides a fresh entry into the contemporary poetic canon. For those looking for their next read, David Naimon has shared his current "To Be Read" (TBR) pile, and the Independent Press Top 40 Bestsellers lists for fiction and nonfiction offer a glimpse into what is capturing the public’s imagination away from the mainstream corporate giants.
The breadth of topics covered this week—from the superyachts of Monaco, where a new novel was birthed, to the essential books for understanding North Korea’s cult of personality—demonstrates the "literary internet" at its best. It is a space where the Venetian ghetto’s history is as relevant as the latest book reviews or the best read-aloud books for children, as discussed by The Wild Robot author Peter Brown. It is a community that refuses to accept stereotypes, as seen in the ongoing effort to move past the endless pigeonholing of rural American life, recognizing that "rural" means something different for everyone.
As the week closes, the literary world remains as vibrant and contentious as it was in Chekhov’s day. Whether it is through a reckoning with the violence of the present, an excavation of the injustices of the past, or a simple reflection on the beauty of a peat bog, writers continue to do the work that Chekhov briefly despaired of: trying to make sense of the world through the written word. The "flops" and the "failures" are merely the beginning of the story; the true work lies in the persistence of the narrative and the refusal to stay silent, even when the audience is slow to listen. From the haunting presence of literary ghosts to the hard-hitting reality of gun violence and self-protection, the conversation remains essential, proving that while Chekhov might not have lived to be seven hundred, his spirit—and the spirit of all who write through the noise—endures.
