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Art Once Divided Father and Son. Could It Now Bring Them Together?

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Art Once Divided Father and Son. Could It Now Bring Them Together?

Charles Santore was in the middle of illustrating the children’s book he did not know would be his last when he began to feel weak.

The book was “The Scroobious Pip,” Edward Lear’s nonsense poem about an uncategorizable creature: part beast, part bird, part fish, part insect. The man bringing it to visual life was a beloved illustrator, a master of realism whose versions of “The Night Before Christmas,” “Peter Rabbit” and “The Wizard of Oz” have sold hundreds of thousands of copies.

Over the course of his career, Charlie, as he was known, rarely missed a day in his studio, two blocks from Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia. But suddenly, he found himself in so much pain that he was unable to work.

On Aug. 11, 2019 — only six days after he was admitted to Pennsylvania Hospital — Charlie died. He was 84.

Soon after, his friend and agent Buz Teacher called a meeting with Charlie’s three adult children to discuss their father’s work. Among the most pressing questions was how to proceed with “The Scroobious Pip,” which was under contract with Running Press, a Philadelphia-based imprint of Hachette. Charlie had made nine drawings for it — each one an incredibly detailed menagerie — and three watercolor paintings. But there was an enormous amount of work left.

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Charlie’s daughter Christina had an idea. What if her younger brother, Nicholas — Nicky — finished illustrating the book? After all, Nicky was the Santore who had followed most closely in his father’s footsteps: He’d gone to the Rhode Island School of Design and then to Yale for an M.F.A. in painting. According to those around him, Nicky really had a gift.

Charlie’s youngest brother, Joe Santore, a fine artist who teaches at the New York Studio School, recalled Nicky’s early drawings as “very impressive, very quiet — like him, very beautifully drawn and gentle.” “There was a beautiful light in them, a real feel for the quality of line and the touch,” he said.

Nicky’s first reaction to the suggestion that he complete “The Scroobious Pip” was skepticism. He didn’t know if he could do the project justice. Even if he could, the role of art in his life had long been a source of tension with his father.

Growing up, Nicky admired his father’s skill. “I remember always smiling when he would draw something, because he was so good,” Nicky said. “He was such a good draftsman.” As a child, Nicky took to drawing quickly, eagerly completing visual exercises his father assigned him.

But despite his talent, Nicky had many other interests. After his first year at Yale, he spent his summer at home, surfing and playing music. His father disapproved. Charlie was a perfectionist and a professional, someone who would never miss a deadline. He was deeply focused on his art, family members said, and he couldn’t understand why Nicky, who had such obvious artistic talent, wasn’t tending to it.

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The day Nicky was due to depart for New Haven, Conn., Charlie took him aside for a talk. “You need to focus if you want to be serious,” Nicky recalled his father saying. But for a very long time, Nicky resisted. “Our ideals were at odds. … It turned me off, in a way. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear.”

By the time of his father’s death, Nicky had been drifting away from visual art for nearly a decade. He had participated in a couple of studio shows, but had lately become something of a jack-of-all-trades, taking on carpentry work, playing in a band and helping to raise his two young daughters. In other words, doing a little of everything — except painting.

Aside from the philosophical disconnect between father and son, two technical differences separated Nicky’s art from Charlie’s. For his children’s books, Charlie had mainly used watercolor — a notoriously unforgiving medium — whereas Nicky mostly painted in oil. And if Nicky’s relationship to visual art in general was fraught, his relationship to the art of illustration was even more so.

At Yale, Nicky had been encouraged to move away from anything deemed commercial. His education was unlike the one his father had received, which amounted to “draw well and you’ll be a good artist,” Nicky said. After Yale, Joe recalled, Nicky’s “work became much more geometrically oriented, structurally oriented.” It caught the attention of some gallerists; Nicky now feels he might not have made the most of the opportunities that arose.

“I’m bad at follow-through,” he said.

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And so, characteristically, Nicky assumed the question of whether he could finish “The Scroobious Pip” was one he could return to after he had more time to think.

But two days after their initial meeting, Buz called again. He had mentioned the idea to Running Press — which Buz and his brother Lawrence founded in 1972, before selling it in the early 2000s — and had received an enthusiastic response.

“I was like, well, wait,” Nicky said. “You haven’t even seen anything I’ve done. I don’t even know if I could do it.”

He decided to spend several months in his father’s longtime studio, surrounded by Charlie’s art, files and photo references. There, he would try to dust off the dormant technical skills he had developed as a younger artist, including some he had learned directly from his father. Running Press would take a look at the results whenever Nicky felt ready; collectively, they would agree on whether to proceed with “The Scroobious Pip.”

The pressure on Nicky to live up to the family name came not just from his father. In some ways, it could be said to come from the city of Philadelphia, where, in certain circles, the Santore name is renowned.

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Charlie’s father, another Charles, was a boxer and union organizer who now has a branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia named in his honor. That Charles and his wife, Nellie, had four sons: Charlie was the oldest; then came Bobby and Richie, twins who founded the Saloon, a fabled Philadelphia restaurant (worth visiting for its décor alone, which was largely overseen by Charlie); and then came Joe, the contemporary artist.

The next generation proved equally interesting: Nicky’s oldest brother, Charles III, is — almost unbelievably — a professional safecracker; his sister Christina is a writer and editor who lives in Amsterdam.

Looking at the highly varied accomplishments of the Santores, one might imagine a sort of Philadelphian version of the Royal Tenenbaums: children of privilege, or at least of intellectuals. But the four Santore brothers and their descendants, according to Joe, were pulled toward creative fields not because of their upbringing, but in spite of it.

Their part of Philadelphia — now called Bella Vista and then known by its parish name, St. Mary’s — was “kind of a wild neighborhood,” Joe said. And Charlie was a neighborhood guy. Known for his street fighting and his pool playing, “he didn’t take any nonsense from anybody.” “But on the other hand, he was interested in art, music,” Joe said.

Asked whether it could have been their parents who encouraged the Santore brothers creatively, Joe thought for a bit. “It wasn’t my dad who was interested in art,” he said, though their father was proud of their abilities and took commissions from the neighborhood for his sons’ hand-drawn Christmas cards. Nor, Joe said, was their mother, though she was known to draw a little.

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Mainly, he credits two Philadelphia public schools: the James Campbell School, where they went for their elementary education — “it was the kind of school that encouraged you to do what you were good at,” Joe said — and Edward Bok Technical High School, where Charlie studied design. When Charlie was awarded a full scholarship to the Philadelphia Museum School of Art for an undergraduate degree, it was a big deal. “Nobody went to college,” Joe said.

But Charlie did. It would become the first step toward a career in art that included a long chapter in commercial illustration, a lifelong passion for antiques (he wrote the definitive texts on Windsor chairs) and ultimately a career as a children’s book illustrator. And Charlie’s higher education would become an important step for the rest of the family, too: It was Charlie who pushed Joe, then two years out of high school and feeling adrift, to consider a college degree. “He said to me, ‘What are you doing with your life?’” It wasn’t long before Joe was enrolled at the Philadelphia College of Art.

In life, and even after death, Charlie seemed to have a way of bringing the other artists in his family back to the work he felt sure they should be doing. Some of his final words to Nicky had been: “Just paint. You’ll find your way.”

So in 2020, Nicky sat down in Charlie’s studio, regarded his father’s work in progress and set out to do exactly that — paint, but not without trepidation.

“The first meeting we had with him, he looked very nervous,” said Julie Matysik, editorial director of Running Press Kids.

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Frances Soo Ping Chow, vice president and creative director of Running Press, offered some simple advice. “You don’t have to live up to anyone,” she said. “This is your project now.”

The work was slow at first. For Nicky, it was challenging to abide by his father’s singular rules. Any white in the picture had to be the white of the paper: Charlie thought it was cheating to add white paint after the fact.

Nicky took nearly three years to finish the book. But by 2023, the artwork for “The Scroobious Pip” was complete — and remarkable. On one page, the translucent wings of a dragonfly refracted the green of tall grass in the background. On another, sea creatures breached a blue-and-gray ocean.

“It’s been amazing to watch,” Matysik said.

Next to her, Soo Ping Chow looked over Nicky’s finished portfolio in the offices of Running Press. It was possible to discern a slight difference in style between Charlie’s three paintings and the rest, which were Nicky’s: Charlie’s palette was brighter, Nicky’s more subdued; Charlie’s technique was dryer, Nicky’s more liquid. But rather than feeling accidental, the effect seemed intentional, and moving. A son and his late father, still and always in conversation with one another: There was something nearly supernatural about it.

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“You can see it,” Soo Ping Chow said. “This book is really beautiful.”

Did Nicky agree? Characteristically, he hesitated. “I think we pulled it off,” he said, at last.

As for what’s next: Nicky is making his own paintings again. He is also at work on another children’s book for Running Press, “The Three Witches,” inspired by MacBeth and by Henry Mercer’s Tile Works in Bucks County, Pa. He is returning to the geometric style that characterized his solo work; he is also using the lessons he learned from finishing “The Scroobious Pip.” For “The Three Witches,” he will use watercolor again, he said — the medium his father loved so much.

Only this time, Nicky said, he’ll do it his way.

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Culture

6 Poems You Should Know by Heart

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6 Poems You Should Know by Heart

Literature

‘Prayer’ (1985) by Galway Kinnell

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Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.

Galway Kinnell in 1970. Photo by LaVerne Harrell Clark, © 1970 Arizona Board of Regents. Courtesy of the University of Arizona Poetry Center

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“I typically say Kinnell’s words at the start of my day, as I’m pedaling a traffic-laden path to my office,” says Major Jackson, 57, the author of six books of poetry, including “Razzle Dazzle” (2023). “The poem encourages a calm acceptance of the day’s events but also wants us to embrace the misapprehension and oblivion of life, to avoid probing too deeply for answers to inscrutable questions. I admire what Kinnell does with only 14 words; the repetition of ‘what,’ ‘that’ and ‘is’ would seem to limit the poem’s sentiment but, paradoxically, the poem opens widely to contain all manner of human experience. The three ‘is’es in the middle line give it a symmetry that makes its message feel part of a natural order, and even more convincing. Thanks to the skillful punctuation, pauses and staccato rhythm, a tonal quality of interior reflection emerges. Much like a haiku, it continues after its last words, lingering like the last note played on a piano that slowly fades.”

“Just as I was entering young adulthood, probably slow to claim romantic feelings, a girlfriend copied out a poem by Pablo Neruda and slipped it into an envelope with red lipstick kisses all over it. In turn, I recited this poem. It took me the remainder of that winter to memorize its lines,” says Jackson. “The poem captures the pitch of longing that defines love at its most intense. The speaker in Shakespeare’s most famous sonnet believes the poem creates the beloved, ‘So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, / So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.’ (Sonnet 18). In Rilke’s expressive declarations of yearning, the beloved remains elusive. Wherever the speaker looks or travels, she marks his world by her absence. I find this deeply moving.”

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Lucille Clifton in 1995. Afro American Newspapers/Gado/Getty Images

“Clifton faced many obstacles, including cancer, a kidney transplant and the loss of her husband and two of her children. Through it all, she crafted a long career as a pre-eminent American poet,” says Jackson. “Her poem ‘won’t you celebrate with me’ is a war cry, an invitation to share in her victories against life’s persistent challenges. The poem is meaningful to all who have had to stare down death in a hospital or had to bereave the passing of close relations. But, even for those who have yet to mourn life’s vicissitudes, the poem is instructive in cultivating resilience and a persevering attitude. I keep coming back to the image of the speaker’s hands and the spirit of steadying oneself in the face of unspeakable storms. She asks in a perfectly attuned gorgeously metrical line, ‘what did i see to be except myself?’”

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‘Sonnet 94’ (1609) by William Shakespeare

They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces
And husband nature’s riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity.
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

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“It’s one of the moments of Western consciousness,” says Frederick Seidel, 90, the author of more than a dozen collections of poetry, including “So What” (2024). “Shakespeare knows and says what he knows.”

“It trombones magnificent, unbearable sorrow,” says Seidel.

“It’s smartass and bitter and bright,” says Seidel.

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These interviews have been edited and condensed.

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Classic and Contemporary Literature From France, Japan, India, the U.K. and Brazil

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Classic and Contemporary Literature From France, Japan, India, the U.K. and Brazil

Literature

FRANCE

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According to the writer Leïla Slimani, 44, the author of ‘The Country of Others’ (2020).

Classic

‘Essais de Montaigne’ (‘Essays of Montaigne,’ 1580)

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Karl Leitz for Anthony Cotsifas Studio

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“France is a country of nuance with a love of conversation and freedom and an aversion to fanaticism. It’s also a country built on reflexive subjectivity. Montaigne reveals all that, writing, ‘I am myself the matter of my book.’”

Contemporary

‘La Carte et le Territoire’ (‘The Map and the Territory,’ 2010) by Michel Houellebecq

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“Houellebecq describes France as a museum, where landscape turns into décor and where rural areas are emptying out. He shows the gap between the Parisian elite and the rest of the population, which he paints as aging and disoriented by modernity. It’s a melancholic and yet ironic novel about a disenchanted nation.”

JAPAN

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According to the writer Yoko Ogawa, 64, the author of ‘The Memory Police’ (1994).

Classic

‘Man’yoshu’ (late eighth century)

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“‘Man’yoshu,’ the oldest extant collection of Japanese poetry, reflects a diversity of voices — from emperors to commoners. They bow their heads to the majesty of nature, weep at the loss of loved ones and find pathos in death. The pages pulse with the vitality of successive generations.”

Contemporary

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‘Tenohira no Shosetsu’ (‘Palm-of-the-Hand Stories,’ 1923-72) by Yasunari Kawabata

“The essence of Japanese literature might lie in brevity: waka [a classical 31-syllable poetry form], haiku and short stories. There’s a tradition of cherishing words that seem to well up from the depths of the heart, imbued with warmth. Kawabata, too, exudes more charm in his short stories — especially these very short ‘palm-of-the-hand’ stories — than in his full-length novels. Good and evil, beauty and ugliness, love and hate — everything is contained in these modest worlds.”

INDIA

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According to Aatish Taseer, 45, a T contributing writer and the author of ‘Stranger to History: A Son’s Journey Through Islamic Lands’ (2009).

Classic

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‘The Kumarasambhava’ (‘The Birth of Kumara,’ circa fifth century) by Kalidasa

Karl Leitz for Anthony Cotsifas Studio

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“This is an epic poem by the greatest of the classical Sanskrit poets and dramatists. The gods are in a pickle. They’re being tormented by a monster, but Shiva, their natural protector, is deep in meditation and cannot be disturbed. Kama, the god of love, armed with his flower bow, is sent down from the heavens to waken Shiva. Never a wise idea! The great god, in his fury, opens his third eye and incinerates Kama. But then, paradoxically, the death of the god of love engenders one of the greatest love stories ever told. In the final canto, Shiva and his wife, the goddess Parvati, have the most electrifying sex for days on end — and, 15 centuries on, in our now censorious time, it still leaves one agog at the sensual wonder that was India.”

Contemporary

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‘The Complex’ (2026) by Karan Mahajan

“This state-of-the-nation novel, which was published just last month, captures the squalor and malice of Indian family life. Delhi is both my and Mahajan’s hometown and, in this sprawling homage to India’s capital, we see it on the eve of the economic liberalization of the 1990s, as the old socialist city gives way to a megalopolis of ambition, greed and political cynicism.”

THE UNITED KINGDOM

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According to the writer Tessa Hadley, 70, the author of ‘The London Train’ (2011).

Classic

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‘Jane Eyre’ (1847) by Charlotte Brontë

“Written almost 200 years ago, it remains an insight into our collective soul — or at least its female part. Somewhere at the heart of us there’s a small girl in a wintry room, curled up in the window seat with a book, watching the lashing rain on the window glass: ‘There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. …’ Jane’s solemnity, her outraged sense of justice, her trials to come, the wild weather outside, her longing for something better, for love in her future: All this speaks, perhaps problematically, to something buried in the foundations of our idea of ourselves.”

Contemporary

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‘All That Man Is’ (2016) by David Szalay

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Karl Leitz for Anthony Cotsifas Studio

“Though he isn’t quite completely British (he’s part Canadian, part Hungarian), Szalay is brilliant at catching certain aspects of British men — aspects that haven’t been written about for a while, now updated for a new era. Funny, exquisitely observed and terrifying, this novel reminds us, too, how absolutely our fate and our identity as a nation belong with the rest of Europe.”

BRAZIL

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According to the writer and critic Noemi Jaffe, 64, the author of ‘What Are the Blind Men Dreaming?’ (2016).

Classic

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‘Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas’ (‘The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas,’ 1881) by Machado de Assis

Karl Leitz for Anthony Cotsifas Studio

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“Not only is it experimental in style — very short chapters mixed with long ones; different points of view; narrated by a corpse; metalinguistic — but it also introduces an extremely ironic view of the rising bourgeoisie in Rio de Janeiro at the time, revealing the hypocrisy of slave owners, the falsehood of love affairs and the only true reason for all social relationships: convenience and personal interest. After almost 150 years, it’s still modern, both formally and, unfortunately, also in content.”

Contemporary

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‘Onde Pastam os Minotauros’ (‘Where Minotaurs Graze,’ 2023) by Joca Reiners Terron

“The two main characters — Cão and Crente — along with some of their colleagues, plan to escape and set fire to the slaughterhouse where they work under exploitative conditions. The men develop sympathy for the animals they kill, and one of them becomes a sort of philosopher, revealing the sheer nonsense of existence and the injustices of society in the deepest parts of Brazil.”

These interviews have been edited and condensed.

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6 Myths That Endure

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6 Myths That Endure

Literature

The Myth of Meeting Oneself

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“This is evident in Virgil’s ‘Aeneid’ (circa 30-19 B.C.) when Aeneas witnesses his own heroic actions depicted in murals of the Trojan War in Juno’s temple, and again in Miguel de Cervantes’s ‘Don Quixote’ (1605-15) when Quixote enters a printer’s shop and finds a book that has been published with fake details about his quest even as he’s living it,” says Ben Okri, 67, the author of “The Famished Road” (1991) and “Madame Sosostris and the Festival for the Brokenhearted” (2025). “In both stories, individuals throw themselves into the world and think they encounter objects, personae, obstacles and antagonists, but what they actually encounter is themselves. In our time, where our actions meet us in the echo chamber of social media, the process is magnified and swifter. Now a deed doesn’t even have to take place for it to enter the realm of reality.”

The Myth of Utopia

“I’ve always had trouble with the idea of utopia, feeling it derives its energy more from what it wishes to dismantle than what it wishes to enact,” says the T writer at large Aatish Taseer, 45, the author of “Stranger to History: A Son’s Journey Through Islamic Lands” (2009). “Ram Rajya, or the mythical rule of the hero Ram in the Hindu epic ‘Ramayana’ (seventh century B.C.-third century A.D.), like all visions of perfection, contains a built-in violence.”

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The Myth of Invisibility

“Invisibility bears power and powerlessness at the same time,” says Okri. “In ancient cultures, it was a gift of the gods. Jesus, for example, walks unrecognized among his disciples, and in Greek myths, Scandinavian legends and ancient African tales, heroes are gifted invisibility in the form of cloaks, sandals or spells. Modern works like the two ‘Invisible Man’ novels, by H.G. Wells (1897) and Ralph Ellison (1952), and the ‘Harry Potter’ novels (1997-2007) by J.K. Rowling reach back to those ideas. But today, people talk about visibility as the highest form of social agency, while invisibility can render a whole class, race, caste or gender unseen.”

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The Myth of Steadiness vs. Speed

Charles Henry Bennett’s illustration “The Hare and the Tortoise” (1857). Alamy

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“‘The Tortoise and the Hare,’ one of Aesop’s fables (sixth century B.C.), doesn’t necessarily strike a younger person as promising — possibly it has a whiff of morality in it,” says Yiyun Li, 53, the author of “A Thousand Years of Good Prayers” (2005) and “Dear Friend, From My Life I Write to You in Your Life” (2017). “But the longer I live and work, the more I understand that it’s the tortoiseness in a person that carries one along, not the swiftness of the mind and body of the hare.”

The Myth of Magic

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William Etty’s “The Sirens and Ulysses” (1837). Bridgeman Images

“Ancient magical tales like Homer’s ‘Odyssey’ (late eighth to early seventh century B.C.) were allegories of transformation, of secret teachings,” says Okri, “whereas modern forms of magic are narrative devices and tropes of storytelling that continue the child’s wonder of life. I think of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘The Great Gatsby’ (1925), Gabriel García Márquez’s ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ (1967) and, again, the ‘Harry Potter’ books. The intuition of magic persists even in these atheistic and science-infested times, where nothing is to be believed if it can’t be subjected to analysis. This is perhaps because the ultimate magic confronts us every day in the mystery of consciousness. That we can see anything is magical; that we experience love is magical; and perhaps the most magical thing of all is the imagination’s unending power to alter the contents and coordinates of reality. It hides tenaciously in the act of reading, which is the most generative act of magic.”

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The Myth of the Immortal Soul

“ ‘The soul is birthless and eternal, imperishable and timeless and is not destroyed when the body is destroyed,’ says Krishna in the ‘Bhagavad Gita’ (second century-first century B.C.). This belief in the immortality of the soul — what used to be called Pythagoreanism in ancient Greece — is still the most pervasive myth in India,” says Taseer, “and has more influence over behavior and how one lives one’s life than any other.”

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These interviews have been edited and condensed.

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