Jesse Kavadlo was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, and is happily settled in suburban St. Louis. He has been fascinated with angsty novels, monster movies, alienated superheroes, ironic dystopias, and heavy metal for a few decades. He has a Ph.D. in English from Fordham University, is a professor at Maryville University, and gigs as the guitarist and singer for an 80s hard rock cover band. He has published several dozen essays in academic journals and book collections as well as three books, most recently American Popular Culture in the Era of Terror: Falling Skies, Dark Knights Rising, and Collapsing Cultures (Praeger, 2015).
A character named Magda dies, and lives, in language only in Ottessa Moshfegh's Death in Her Hands. But then again, don't all literary characters?
Prolific literary critic Terry Eagleton tries to explain how but doesn't tell why, we shouldn't read about vacuum cleaners in How to Read Literature.
In her memoir My Time Among the Whites, Jennine Capó Crucet demonstrates that making your home among strangers is harder than it seems.
In both The Avengers: Endgame and Game of Thrones, the key conflicts are not between good and evil, as one might think, but between the beginnings and endings of their stories.
Marq De Villiers' readers will readily discern where -- aside from abysses -- Hell and Damnation: A Sinner's Guide to Eternal Torment is headed: someplace unexpectedly fun.
As far as The Handmaid's Tale and Philosophy is concerned, Trump et al are the exact bastards you're not supposed to let grind you down.
Netflix's interactive movie, Bandersnatch, doesn't really offer choices, but it does offer something else: a warning.
In Wasteland: The Great War and the Origins of Modern Horror, historian W. Scott Poole exhumes our obsession with the living dead.
With State of Euphoria, Anthrax tempered some of the excessive '80s metal tendencies of their vocal, lead guitar, and song arrangements, reaching back toward something more viscerally punk as the '80s ended.
Forget everything you think you know about Paul Auster, as with the release of his New York Trilogy manuscripts, the award-winning author talks typewriters, telephones, and why he doesn't think of himself as a novelist.
The End of Endings: How 'Harry Potter and the Cursed Child' and Don DeLillo's 'Zero K' Explain the Current State of Storytelling
Somehow, without realizing it, for both DeLillo and Rowling, death, the end of the world, and endings themselves are best emblematized by a dysfunctional father/son relationship.
What does it mean, ontologically and narratively, when the seeming finality of death disappears from our stories? What does it mean when our stories and our characters, unlike our lives, refuse to come to an end?