Patrick Walsh is a writer and contributor for the Brooklyn Rail.
Daniel of the Lions DenBy Patrick Walsh
To wed, even for a day, ones beliefs with corresponding acts is perhaps the most difficult, dangerous, and noble endeavor any person can undertake. This is all the more so when said convictions run counter to the given order, laws, and culture of the age.
On St. Cecilia'sBy Patrick Walsh
In a culture as utilitarian and self-congratulatory as ours, it is something more than refreshing and humbling to encounter that which was clearly created as a labor of love.
Where Did You Go, Joe DiMaggio?By Patrick Walsh
As long as I live I shall cherish my childhood visits to Yankee Stadium. Decades later I can still recall the intoxication of entering the sublime House that Ruth Built
A Portrait of the Artist as a Loving DaughterBy Patrick Walsh
There is no more primal human relationship than the one between the woman in whose body we literally took form and ourselves: that is, between mother and child.
Thank God Almighty We Are Free At LastBy Patrick Walsh
The Selling of Free Trade and Levis Children are both accounts of what happens and what must happen when a man-made and highly dynamic abstract entity called capital is given God-like powers, and allowed if not encouraged to move from one nation to another with impunity.
Barney, Beckett, and the BeatsBy Alan Lockwood and Patrick Walsh
It is no exaggeration to say that 20th century literature and culture is an infinitely richer and more fertile field because of the lifes work of publisher Barney Rosset.
Giusto Shines In Microtonal FestBy Patrick Walsh
It is always refreshing to discover that someone you thought you knew a little bit turns out to be larger, more complex, and infinitely more courageous than you ever imagined: this is especially true when said revelation is delivered through an act of creation.
Because All Falsehood Spreads Its Illness, IBy Patrick Walsh
(For J.C.M.) We must speak frankly, you and I. We must, at least, have that decency, To bring forth that semblance of imperfect light, Of imperfect sight, So all that has been cruelly hidden and renamed Disguised and and slyly unspoken, Can be at last imperfectly seen And clearly declare: