Connected

In The Sunday Times I talk about shrinking penises, obesity and networks. The book is Connected by Christakis and Fowler.

The Old Will Win

In The Sunday Times I discuss the wrinkly revolution - demographic and cultural.

Peter Carey

In The Sunday Times I interview Peter Carey in New York.

God, I Love America

Bolinas, California.

From where, I discover, Bill Berkson originated. He was the, at least, partial inspiration of a great poem - Frank O'Hara's For the Chinese New Year and for Bill Berkson.

Achebe

Hello from San Francisco. In The Sunday Times I interview - or, rather, sit at the feet of - Chinua Achebe. Link later. Here it is.

Jaron Lanier

Hello from New York. Tomorrow in The Sunday Times I interview Jaron Lanier. Link later. Here it is.

On Games

In The Sunday Times I review Tom Chatfield's book on computer games Fun Inc.. My conclusion is that Jason's Rohrer's Passage is the greatest game of all. Do not, however, get involved with Rohrer's Primrose. Your conscious life will end.

Destruction, the Past and the Future

In The Sunday Times I wrote about the world in the noughties, compulsively destructive artist Michael Landy and science and technology in the next decade.

On a Donkey

You waste your time wondering what it's all about until, one day, it rides past you on a donkey and you don't notice. Luv 'n' peece, guys.

Snow

Norfolk roads have been made beautiful and unfamiliar by the snow. No, that should be 'beautiful but unfamiliar'. The beauty of Norfolk lies in being Norfolk. But snow neutralises. I drive down lanes overhung with branches bending under the white weight that could be in Russia or Scandinavia. It's thrilling but wrong. One of the most perfect poems I know was written about this strange nothingness of snow. Here it is.

The Snow Man

by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.