Every Batman story explores the nature of good and evil—or more specifically the often blurry line between the two. The Dark Knight takes the Batman-Everyman story in fresh directions, ones germane to a world confronted with terrorism. The movie raises the question: What is worse or more demonic: a terrorist with principles (even if that principle is nothing grander than accumulating more and more money) or one without?
Sunday afternoons, she rolled off her stockings to cross beams girding my grandfather’s barn. She was fifteen and longed for something in the dark leafy boughs she couldn’t quite reach. Balancing on a hand-hewn rafter was nothing more than stepping out on a limb and the humid hour held its breath, the twittering sparrows fell silent. Dust shivered suspended as she passed through shafts of light austere as a coronation. This was before she coiled her braids under a covering and took her place in a kitchen with its slick checkered floor and the tick of a clock she had to rewind. For one immortal summer, girders hung taut as strings her steady feet could strum.
Evelyn Waugh’s marvelous novel Brideshead Revisited begins as a coming-of-age story. At Oxford in the 1920s Charles Ryder crosses paths with the disarming, childlike aristocrat Sebastian Flyte; they become inseparable friends, and Charles is taken up by Sebastian’s family.
The name Roman Polanski conjures up different responses. To many film buffs he is the Polish wunderkind who rocketed out of the Lodz film school in Poland to direct the dark and mysterious Knife in the Water (1962), a tale of fear and betrayal on the high seas heralded for its thematic complexity and perfect camera placement.
I praise the necklace so long it drapes, loops, and circles the neck of a grieving dowager back to her girlhood play.
Yet, I praise the darkening urine of amber beads and the fears engendered by bloodstone;
I praise red coral—millions of gifts piled by sea creatures’ lives. Under the hard western sky, I praise grimy hands, fashioning turquoise squash blossoms for the necks of tourists. I praise the poor woman’s subterfuge, Zircon, and the queen’s throngs of golden chains.
I praise Nancy Pelosi’s pearls,
the sound-taste of chrysoprase, citrine’s juiciness, opal’s sparks, amethyst’s rumored temperance.
I praise the jeweler’s loupe, peeking down from its glass copula into jasper’s chocolate smear purloined from Heaven’s walls.
For 20 years, José Gutierrez, a garbage truck driver in Bogotá, Colombia, has been rescuing books from upper class neighborhoods. He turned his own modest house in a poor neighborhood into a community library, which by now has some 20,000 volumes stacked from floor to ceiling. Known in Colombia as “Lord of the Books,” he attributes his own love of reading to his mother, who read stories to him every night when he was a child. Gutierrez’s favorite books include One Hundred Years of Solitude by his Nobel Prize–winning fellow countryman Gabriel García Márquez (AP).