Centennial literary observations are frequently billed as occasions of rediscovery, opportunities to revisit a forgotten writer and observe again what made them memorable, or even merely fashionable, to begin with. What though of the case where a writer never really went away at all? That’s the situation in many ways of Eudora Welty, whose 100th birthday takes place in April. For many readers, she requires no reintroduction, and particularly in the Deep South her work still maintains a certain pleasant familiarity. I suspect that most people who would fail the softest literary pop quiz would instantly know that the e-mail software they use was named in homage to the author of “Why I Live at the P.O.”

The University Press of...

Blossom Dearie, who died in New York on Saturday at age 82, will I hope justly go down with Sarah Vaughn, Ella Fitzgerald, Keely Smith, and Anita O’Day as one of the great vocalists of the twentieth century, an unlikely, untorchy stayer whose restaurant-row whisper could turn the hoariest of standards into something absolutely fresh and idiosyncratic and unique. Whitney Balliett once wrote that her voice could hardly reach the second floor of a doll house, but her emotional range hit highs and lows more extreme than the human ear was evolved to receive and transmit to the brain. Her “Down With Love,” an ironic reveille for anyone who’d ever been dumped, was a confetti parade of fizzy happiness, and who...

Laurie Fendrich has already done such a fabulous job commenting on the ramifications of the decision of the Brandeis mandarins to shutter their lapidary art museum that I hesitate to jump in at this point. But for anyone who requires a primer in how utterly and woefully rotten the deal is, please read Roberta Smith’s article in today’s New York Times.

Putting the Rose’s collection up for sale is an idiotic decision on every level. Students of art history feel that their diploma is debased. Donors rightfully feel swindled. Curators and museum staff were caught unawares — Rose director Michael Rush late last week was imploring Brandeis alumni not to send donations, since the museum...

Nothing quite confers on dates a crown of cultural and monetary significance like a big fat zero on the end of a number, and the annual Burns Night this Sunday is no exception: The mushy celebration of poetry, whiskey, and haggis, which this year occurs on the 250th birthday of Robert Burns, looks to be the biggest ever. The Scottish government is attempting to convert the annual visitation of the event into actual visitation, launching a Caledonia goodwill campaign this weekend with Homecoming Scotland (the promotional campaign hopes to entice the 80 million or so folks worldwide with connections to Scotland to visit). A visit to the Web site of The Scotsman pulls up on-line ads for Burns...

I have been reading Lily Tuck’s concise Woman of Rome: A Life of Elsa Morante, the biography of one of the greatest figures of postwar Italian literature, best known in the States for her 1957 novel Arturo’s Island. Tuck’s book is a fascinating study of literary fortunes, and it begins with the claim that, “had Elsa Morante and her husband, Alberto Moravia, been French, they would have been as much celebrated as Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir.” The comparison seems a bit invidious, but it does at least put front and center the goal of the biography — to question why Morante isn’t better appreciated as a world writer than she is. (It must be said that in...

On Christmas Eve I was thinking not of sugarplum fairies and trimmings and trees but of a dipsomaniacal Pittsburgh Pirate pitcher who threw a no-hitter while on an acid trip (if you’re wondering, he walked eight batters in the process) and once attempted to hit every batter in the Cincinnati Reds lineup (he made it through the first three guys before Tony Perez ducked his way out to a base on balls and he tossed one at the head of Johnny Bench and the umpire ejected him). Dock Ellis, he who wore his hair in curlers so the perspiration dripping down would make his spitball easier to, um, actualize, had died the weekend before, and I wanted to get my hands on the memoir he wrote with a future poet laureate, Donald Hall. Maybe...

(RNA molecule image at Wikimedia Commons)

Is the future of science publishing unfolding in the free-for-all of Wikipedia?

Yesterday Nature reported that RNA Biology, which publishes research on families of RNA molecules, announced it will begin requiring that geneticists who submit their work to the journal agree to write a Wikipedia entry summarizing their findings. They’ve done so with the noble goal of using “the opportunities of mixed science publishing to bring reliable research resources to wider scientific and lay audiences,” as editor-in-chief Renee...

Remember all those think pieces about the bleak future for the English language in the era of text messaging? That GR8 and OMG would level the ornate syntax of the tongue while rendering the young and their dexterous thumbs incapable of grasping the finer points of grammar and punctuation? Newsweek took up the debate a couple of months ago with the cheeky title “The Death of English (LOL)” while the BBC challenged its readers to decipher this particular hobgoblin of TXTese:

“My smmr hols wr CWOT. B4, we used 2go2 NY 2C my bro, his GF & thr 3 :- kids FTF. ILNY, it’s a gr8 plc.”

The argument over the baleful effect of TXTing is probably a Seinfeldian debate about nothing, and I particularly enjoyed Lynn Truss’s

I am in Miami, where a cultural sector — contemporary art — is staring into the financial abyss and hearing the hoof beats behind it that may butt it over the cliff. Art Basel Miami, the satellite December art fair put on by its elder Swiss organization, and the many-ringed circus of smaller fairs held at the same time are going forth for the next five days with the hope of the dealers who populate them that, some way, they can hold out against the contracting economy. Anecdotally most people on the money side of the art market — gallerists, collectors, auctioneers, etc. — will tell you that recessions take a good nine months to a year to roll from the economy at large to the contemporary-art coffers. So far, at least, they look right. Though sales were sluggish at best at recent auctions and the big London fair Frieze, I can count the number of good...

Happy Birthday (a few days early) to Claude Lévi-Strauss, born one hundred years ago this Friday, November 28, in Brussels.

In France, the centennial celebration has been the occasion for a year-long fête, with essays and articles devoted to his life, work, and intellectual legacy. The highpoint took place in May, when Gallimard made Lévi-Strauss the newest addition to the 198 authors whose collected works appear in its Bibliothèque de la Pléiade series — the publishing equivalent, begun in 1931, of election to the Academie Française. The Bible-paper volumes of the Pléiade, in their concise and perfect Gallic elegance, are a perfect lure to book fetishists, and the Lévi-Strauss edition is no exception. At a budget-busting...