This content is available to subscribers and issue purchasers.
“I’m convinced the greatest cancer to the Arts today, Dana, are critics,” my roommate said, hurling his third morning paper across our penthouse apartment. The pages separated midair and fluttered down to the backs of chairs, lampshades, and the floor where they joined the debris of the two prior offending papers. A lesser man might have taken offense, hearing his occupation disparaged with such violence. As it was, I merely put my coffee cup down on the breakfast table and glared across the apartment to where Arch Palafox lounged in his favorite armchair by the electric fireplace, already reaching for