In this collection of thirty-eight chiseled short stories, George Thomas Clark introduces readers to actors, alcoholics, addicts, writers famous and unknown, a general, a lovelorn farmer, a family besieged by cancer, extraterrestrials threatening the world, a couple time traveling back to a critical battle, a deranged husband chasing his wife, and many more memorable people and events.
Hitler Here is a well researched and lyrically written biographical novel offering first-person stories by the Fuehrer and a variety of other characters. This intimate approach invites the reader to peer into Hitler’s mind, talk to Eva Braun, joust with Goering, Goebbels, and Himmler, debate with the generals, fight on land and at sea and in the air, and huddle in the death camps as, everywhere, civilization is consumed.
Category Archives: Diego Rivera
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“You’ll never be in the first rank of Mexican artists because your work lacks political dimension,” said Diego Rivera. “Let me refute that, for your edification, of course,” said Manuel Ramos Martínez. “Please, step inside. This is my exhibition at the Pasadena Museum of California Art.” “Quite a modest place next to the grand museums […]
I commend you, “The Two Fridas,” for coming to this exhibition of women’s surrealism, but I must again say I’m concerned about your obsessive love for Diego Rivera. Artistically, of course, you’ve again transformed your physical and emotional pain into a stunning work of art. That’s not the issue, though. The issue is your mental […]
decades ago when poet amiri baraka’s surname jones rebuked for obscenity by langston hughes in essay “that boy leroi” boy now almost eighty on stage with fiftyish daughter at hammer museum and can’t remember abstract impressionist painter who dripped jackson pollock she said and the mexican muralist my man diego rivera she said baraka generally […]
It can’t be too late. This is a meeting so compelling and mandatory that all rules, technicalities, and encumbrances must be ignored. It doesn’t matter they are dead. It doesn’t matter they never knew each other. It doesn’t matter they were married. It matters only that the proper time be chosen, a common instant that […]
Late on a 1940 spring night David Alfaro Siqueiros mounted a horse and ordered comrades from the Spanish Civil War, whom he’d commanded as a tough colonel, and fellow Mexican communists to also mount up and secure their automatic rifles before riding hard to the villa, in Coyoacán south of Mexico City, where Leon Trotsky […]
I’m shy and nervous and can’t get much from women except in brothels where they’ll at least pay attention awhile. In 1898 I meet Dolly at my regular place and suddenly feel I have a chance, maybe I can relax with this woman and really have her, away from here. We start going together right […]
Thousands of people every day line up outside Mexico City’s eminent cultural center – Palacio de Bellas Artes – then with reverence and enthusiasm enter the primary gallery where sixty-five oil paintings, declarations of my life, are displayed to celebrate not merely my aesthetic vision but my glamorous and wretched journey, and, I shudder, my […]
I am tired of being hounded about my political beliefs, which I’m prouder of than anything except my murals and paintings. People still say, “How could so gifted an artist be such a political nincompoop?” Perhaps, then, I should respond that though I was an ardent communist until my death almost a half century ago, […]