In an intellectual living room, you dress in deep reds and creams, never lack alcohol, and are privy to wealth, mystery, gossip, wit, pretension, and Rumors, lots and lots of Rumors.

It is hidden in a back corner of the Princeton University Art Museum, past the Picasso and Warhol, almost unimaginable in a university art museum. It comes in seventy-seven parts and it comes with security guards.

I sat. And I waited. And waited. And waited. And, in doing so, I got concerned for the fifth annual Theatre Intime Freshman One Act Festival. The stage lighting shone too brightly and for too long on a set of clashing oranges and teals in a 1960s home. It was ...

INTRODUCTION
With the unfortunate rise in popularity of such publication as InTouch, Us Weekly, Star and People, many adolescents hope to become celebrities to get their names strewn across these glossy rags.

Five months ago, I fell in love with a nine-year-old boy. His name was Oskar Schell, and he was cheeky, and he was perceptive, and he was caring, and he wrote to Steven Hawking thinking he would get a personal response, and he was a pacifist, and he was in an incredible amount of pain. I knew I loved him when he said, “Sometimes I think it would be weird if there were a skyscraper that moved up and down while its elevator stayed in place…Also, that could be extremely useful, because if you’re on the ninety-fifth floor, and a plane hits below you, the building could take you to the ground, and everyone would be safe…”

A week ago, I sat down with famed Princeton creative writing instructor Gabe Hudson. Aside from being loved by his students, he is an Editor-At-Large at McSweeney’s and the author of Dear Mr. President. His work has appeared in The New Yorker, GQ, and The Village Voice, among other national publications.

Despite my repeated viewings of Sister Act (and, to be sure, Sister Act 2) in primary school, I cannot claim to be a religious scholar. I’m unable to name the apostles, though thanks to Whoopi Goldberg I know that Ringo is not one of them. I cannot explain the ...

As we sit on the heels of November sweeps, you may have noticed that the current crop of new television shows is a bit lacking. Not that there isn’t anything redeeming to be found in Freddie Prinze Jr. and 90210 alums, seven simultaneous campy alien invasions, Geena Davis’s ...

I began insisting that my first car would be very small, very fast and very Italian. That should have been the first indication of my impending age-related crisis. There would be no minivan for my children. Oh no. Only a Ferrari or, in the worst case, a Porsche. The idea ...

History tells us that outsiders matter, that they are our richest resource of truthfulness. Strangers are best at diagnosing the state of a given community, and it is their involvement that can best spur a sense of communal self-reflection and candidness. Think about it; those most perceptive critics and lovers ...

I loathe romance. I was the girl who laughed hysterically at the many public declarations of love made in Love, Actually and the tender resolution to any and all Meg Ryan movies; flowers, candlelight dinners and heart-shaped boxes of chocolate should be kept away from me lest I lose all ...

“Friday Night Lights” is remarkable, and my subsequent praise will not even begin to do it justice. It is quite simply not only the best thing I’ve laid eyes on in years, but maybe the best thing I’ve laid eyes on. Ever. And by all rights, it shouldn ...

Holden Caufield can wonder about the ducks all he wants. I wonder about where bohemia went—my bohemians went and why I can’t find them and how they survive on these streets in the winter—, and so I imagine my own funeral. Dynamite will be welded to my joists ...