A utopian German settlement in Chile had already turned darkly cultish by the time it became a secret torture site for enemies of the Pinochet regime.
The American Scholar
In 1968, the author revisits remote British Columbia, which he traveled two years earlier.
A radical new treatment for auditory hallucinations.
What happens when top universities focus on careers rather than minds.
A pre-recession essay on becoming extremely wealthy.
A speech on the value of being alone with your thoughts, delivered to the plebe class at West Point.
A flurry of interactions in a doctor's office hint to varieties of unnamed medical problems and domestic unhappiness.
"Why wasn’t the doctor coming out? I could give her a ride, but not to another state, not to Wheeling, West Virginia. Beyond the glass doors, a vacuum started loudly. Suddenly, the woman who’d drawn my blood walked quickly past us, tears streaming, mouth tight, clutching a pink piece of paper."
Afternoons with Altman and Allen.
For a year or two during the mid-1970s, living in New York, I was a moviegoer. I was in my early 20s then, working off and on, driving a cab, setting up the stage at rock shows, writing occasional pieces for The Village Voice. But there were also long empty spells. I tried to write some fiction and couldn’t, tried to read and could—but only for so long. I ended up going to the movies.