The sex lives of writers
The era of the Great Literary Sex God is over
The era of the Great Literary Sex God is over
When everyone has power, no one has power
Ketchum today does not exploit the Hemingway connection
Today’s jet-setting yoga lover is spoiled for choice
Bohemian London is full of men like me who now depend on the kindness of friends for life’s little luxuries
We who refuse to spend our days caressing the wretched rectangle are fast being reduced to second-class citizenhood
It’s a contemptible attempt at escaping the pain of being a man
During their sessions together The Other Man does that old Freudian trick of staying silent
From spooning to spoons
It seems plausible that a small democracy is more intelligent and more wisely ruled than a modern mass one like America
Like the cancel culture of the woke, the cancel culture of friendship is made possible by technology
An act that I have perversely enjoyed for most of my life lost much of its luster a score of years ago
Running our lives is the sort of project to which fallen humanity is unsuited
My book has not gotten sensational reviews. It’s gotten no reviews — at least from the national press
We took a side trip to Sonny Bono’s hometown en route to a birthday party in Indiana
Since the French Revolution, left-wing politics have been essentially about revenge
Our every visit is scored by songs and films and words disgorged by the world’s entertainment factory
A usually quiet town in Connecticut finds autos roaring around the racetrack
My Dinner with Jordan Peterson makes for a better dinner-party story than My Buddy’s Book Launch
Ceremony comes naturally to the British; Americans are suspicious of it