Roger Miller
Content by Roger Miller
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Lambs of God, by the Australian novelist Marele Day, is the most ingeniously religious novel I have read in a long, long time.
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Back when at least a few entertainers owned both intelligence and a sense of the fitness of things, Fred Allen, the great wit and radio comedian -- in his case, not mutually contradictory t
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Talk about your mute inglorious Miltons: There was in the Old West a newspaperman by the name of James E. W.
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After finishing Shawn Levy's Rat Pack Confidential, I thought of a remark in an essay by my favorite essayist, Joseph Epstein.
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One of my favorite characters in fiction is the Storekeeper in Phil Stong's 1932 novel, State Fair.
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There is much meditation, often comic or witty, on illness, aging, and dying in Alison Lurie's The Last Resort, a novel about mostly upper-middle-class academic or artistic types in Key West dealin
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Something nasty in the woodshed Sometimes when I read mysteries by British women writers, which is as often as I can, a phrase from Stella Gibbons's Cold Comfort Farm comes to mind: the something
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The right to bear armadillos What is a, if not the, hallmark of a mystery novel? I've said it before, and I'll say it again: as Raymond Chandler is my witness, it's muddle.
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Beryl Bainbridge again makes history Beryl Bainbridge seems attracted to historical doom.
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The last days of radio Ê It is not often that the death of a great cultural phenomenon can be precisely dated.
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What's black and white and red all over? America 1950 What often comes back to me from the early 1950s is the word communist.
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As a person growing old more rapidly than he cares to contemplate, I can tell you that no one in his youth or even early middle age thinks he will ever get old.
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One has the right to expect decency even of a poet, George Orwell said, poet standing for both the supercilious, sandal-shod poetaster of yore and for self-absorbed, courtesy-flouting artists in
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Virtually since the end of World War II foreign writers have been discovering and reporting on the New Germany in books usually with that term (or the New Germans ) in the title.
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Those were the days, my friend I am rare among American males, I venture to say, in liking to hang out clothes on a clothesline. It was traditionally a female task, but I like it.
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The faster I go, the behinder I get, runs the rustic saw, which would have made a good epigraph to James Gleick's Faster: The Acceleration of Just About Everything.
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When a novel deals on an intellectual level with matters spiritual or supernatural, the urge to try and figure out what the author may be trying to tell us becomes irresistible.
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Somewhere, come July 21, Ernest Hemingway will be celebrating his 100th birthday. In less ethereal realms, the celebrations, or preparations for them, already have begun. In April, at the John F.
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