![]() This is the only thing that steadies me.” Or, in the last two lines of a piece on the murder of Vincent Chin: “It could have been any one of us. This mood comes across when he writes on Diamanda Galás’s album All the Way: “The past isn’t an escape from the present.” It appears on the edges of an essay on Trump’s presidency: “We rise to meet circumstances that we may never have foreseen. Sometimes it feels like Hsu is piecing together something else, something bigger and just beyond the page – his criticism not a detour but rather the only way through. Hopefully you can take something out of this and see beyond me.” “I’m always trying to bring a kind of humility into the work where I’m like, I don’t actually know the answers. ![]() Drawing such constellations, he makes clear that he, too, is simply another node. Du Bois elsewhere, he swerves between George Michael’s death and Maggie Lee’s film Mommy and the International Community Radio Taipei. ![]() He explains his approach: “There was a moment when I realised that I could not come up with disruptive theories for how the world should be … My ability is more one where I can connect different conversations, or connect different worlds.” And so he does, connecting Paul Beatty with Kendrick Lamar with W. E. B. Refusing the hatchet, The New Yorker critic prefers a more careful mode. ![]() ![]() Hua Hsu approaches criticism with a refreshing tenderness. ![]()
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