Sam Pink, is promoting his new book—the first novel ever to be published by Electric Lit—which has a very special offer: if you preorder the book, he’ll sext you on Valentine’s Day. Before you roll your eyes, consider Sarah Nicole Prickett’s rundown on the vertiginous linguistic joys of real good sexting.
Virginia Woolf’s writings for the family bulletin her nephews founded as precocious and literary little children are being made available by the British Library. The notice in the Guardian wonders if this will be the very final posthumous Woolf work to be unearthed.
When will we be able to say the same for Roberto Bolaño? Who, by the way, made Bill Morris’s handy dandy list for the ways in which writers retire—or don’t.
Israel Keyes, the American convicted serial rapist and killer, killed himself. Instead of a note detailing the entirety of his crimes, he left dark fragments of simultaneously chilling and clichéd poetry. The FBI refused to interpret the poems, and the whole business, (including their very availability) makes me wonder: where are the limits of language, and the boundaries of the criticism of its usage?
