Dan Barry has long been one of our favorite journalists. He writes the column This Land for The New York Times. His work delves into the corners of America, examining the stories that move us apart and bring us together. He is the recipient of numerous awards for journalistic excellence, as well as the author of Pull Me Up: A Memoir, and City Lights: Stories About New York. Recently he took time from his busy schedule to answer our questions. We thank him for this.

Dark Sky Magazine: You’ve been writing This Land since 2007. How has the experience treated you?

Dan Barry: The flip answer would be that I have enough small bottles of motel shampoo to lather the borough of Brooklyn. But the truth is that the job, while taxing at times, has been a dream. Any complaints about eating too often at Subways, or waiting on the tarmacs of America, are more than offset by the privilege of wandering around this country, exploring, nosing around, trying to figure it all out. Entirely paid for, by the way, by The New York Times. In journalism, it really doesn’t get much better than this.

So, in short, the experience has treated me quite well, thank you.

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Buddha's Dead. Now What?

Tumultuous times find us searching for higher ground, or deeper meaning, or stories through which we might find escape. The sky isn’t falling or anything, and the Red Sox did earn (win?) the Wild Card, but still. It’s times like these that make us appreciate our bookish proclivities. What better way to turn away from oneself than within the pages (digital or print) of an engrossing read? Killing the Buddha — what a provocative name! — discusses the meaning of God with people who don’t believe in God. Ever read Arthur Machen? You have, well good for you. We hadn’t either. The Guardian expounds on his deliciously odd fiction. Literary genius is poked with a stick, and James Joyce pokes back. At least that’s how Paper Cuts sees it. A big, new book, staggering with over 2,000 synonyms for drunkenness, is published. Salon chats up the linguistic attitudes of technology, the Boston Review comes clean and admits that poets are thieves, and an importantly obscure Italian philosopher has his moment in the sun.  Enjoy the good times while they last. — Kevin Murphy

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The maid, bent like a paperclip

isn’t here or is here.

Her plastic rosary

hanging from the neck of an empty Windex bottle.

On the wall

a pastel street scene and Barbara Bush.

Under a layer of dust

the carpeting is patterned with fleur-de-lis’

a fitting flag

for the aphasic dolphin

who helms the sad France of this slum.

Periodically, you’ll hear a TV turn on or off.

On a scalloped paper coaster

you write a psalm.

It starts,

Standing with one hand to smooth your hair

at a small window green with rain

and ends with an abandoned 55’ Plymouth Savoy

near the Golden Gate bridge.

A guilty wind

disturbs two feral cats, mid-coitus in the alley

which are really your shadow

which is really the ink held in these letters,

which is really a roundabout way of asking

will you be my stranger?

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Matt McBride is a relatively recent graduate of Bowling Green State University’s MFA program. His chapbook, The Space between Stars, was released last March on Kent State’s Wick Poetry Press. Additionally, he has recently published work in Alice Blue, Cranky, Phoebe, Poet Lore, and The Toledo City Paper. He works as an instructor at Bowling Green State University, writing in the small margins his life allows.

Reading: An Eye Squinting Task

Language is our persuasion. And to commemorate our persuasion we present a series of articles on the written word: We may not agree with the writings of William Safire, but he’s proven that a college education is not required for weaving words and avoiding Sheridan’s Mrs. Malaprop. The Boston Globe treads daily in a pool of less-than-viral-words, Wikipedia might not exist without Samuel Johnson’s lexicography, and, in absolutely no honor of Mr. Johnson, Roman Polanski’s Wikipedia page has gone offline. P.J. O’Rourke — the quintessential Woodstock generation sellout — thinks the word “Altamont” defines Woodstock. Finally, In Case You Missed It, a review of strikingly old-century verbiage pits James Joyce in the same corner as The Atlantic . All told, it’s words to chew on. – Andrew Geer

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50 Years Of Service

Noir fiction uses society’s seedier side as a way to inform plots, characters, settings. It is generally a swift, brooding experience, flush with curt dames, snappy declaratives and  rain-soaked fedoras. When it is done well, Noir fiction is a cavalier vehicle that allows an author to describe a particular social injustice, give it a name and drive it down a harrowing stretch of road. Naked Lunch, which recently turned 50, has elements of Noir. Read more in Pop Matters. James Ellroy is an undisputed master, as is PD James. And they each made the news today. Dennis Lehane sets his crime-laced fables in Boston’s rough and tumble neighborhoods. Recently he edited an anthology of Boston Noir. Speaking of Boston, Ronan Noone, an Irish cum American playwright, is enjoying applause in his adopted city. If Noir’s not your thing, skip over to The New Yorker, which reflects on Sam Haskins’ provocative photo essays. Or, if you’re hungry, the News-Gazette has a tasty read on the food writing of John T. Edge. Masterpiece Comics turns literary classics into cartoons, and a new book about raconteur Mario Savio is reviewed in the San Francisco Chronicle. Finally, longtime language man William Safire died yesterday. His copy, insight and punchy attitude made the world a more rewarding place, for readers both on the left and the right side of his politics. — Kevin Murphy

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