Samuel Ashworth is a novelist, journalist, and teacher. He is a regular contributor to the Washington Post Magazine and Eater.com, and his fiction, essays, and criticism have appeared in Hazlitt, NYLON, Barrelhouse, Catapult, the Times Literary Supplement, and the Brooklyn Rail. He writes the semi-regular "Dispatches from the Swamp" column for The Rumpus, and his travel writing has appeared in Roads and Kingdoms. He is the recipient of a 2018 Artist Fellowship from the DC CouncilontheArts and Humanities, and an assistant fiction editor at Barrelhouse Magazine.
Born and raised in Manhattan, he attended Trinity College Dublin before receiving his B.A. from Columbia University. He holds an M.F.A. in fiction from George Mason University, where he won the Dan Rudy, Shelley A. Marshall, and Mary Roberts Rinehart prizes for fiction, and Alan Cheuse prize for Nonfiction. The recipient of a 2018 Individual Artist Fellowship from the DC Council on the Arts and Humanities, he also received the inaugural Travel Research Award from the Alan Cheuse International Writers Center, which sent him to France to work in restaurant kitchens in Summer 2017. He lives in Washington, DC, with his wife and son and is working on a novel about the life and death of an American chef, told in the form of an autopsy.
If history, as the scholar Lucien Febvre said, is the daughter of time, journalism is the harried hospital administrator who shows up to let the new mother know it's been 48 hours and someone else needs the room.
Images of saints invariably portray them as calm and beatific. Consider the depictions of Saint Sebastian looking fondly skyward as his body is riddled with arrows. And in this sense, the seemingly imperturbable Mueller made for an ideal religious icon. His sphinxlike cool made him the perfect vessel for his fans’ anxieties about the state of the country and, arguably, the perfect nemesis to President Trump.
Eisenhower...famously used his 1961 farewell address to warn Americans of the growing power of the “military-industrial complex.” Because of that speech, it struck some observers as ironic that the White House Historical Association would honor Ike with an ornament sponsored by Lockheed, the world’s biggest defense contractor.
Now, any public figure who receives a White House invitation has to square being honored by the president with being honored by this president. That tension is even more acute for someone playing for a team in Washington, D.C., whose majority-Democratic residents are basically political seismographs, sensitive to even the smallest tremors coming from 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
Here in the District, where even the strip clubs play CNN these days, knowledge is the only power we have. They call us a swamp, but what we are is a hive of very prickly nerds. I’ve only been here for five years, but what I’ve learned is that we’re all a bunch of Tyrion Lannisters: we drink and we know things.
Whether you mean it or not, to say “Judeo-Christian” is to conscript Jews into a vision of a Godly, purified America, and that has never, ever, ever worked out well for us. It’s co-opting, it’s colonizing, and it’s condescending. It has comprehensively infected our national political discourse, but so did syphilis, once upon a time, and we figured out how to cure that.
With a bang, the cockpit door flew open. There, suddenly, were Alice and the short fat Cuban, his knife pressed anew to her neck, and now—now they went bananas. The ovation would have made the rafters of the Metropolitan Opera buckle; indeed, the plane itself began to judder and rattle.
Outside of no-reservation restaurants and gay kickball, nothing is more fashionable in D.C. than hating on The West Wing. To invoke it with any kind of earnestness at all is to invite derision tinged with pity, and liberal use of the phrase “sweet summer child.” But what we of this city cannot admit, none of us, is that we hate on The West Wing because we so desperately want it to be real, and we will never get over the fact that it is not.
There are no old men in South Sudan, so I think this one must be a ghost. He appeared in the middle of the street, in the white light carved from the darkness by a passing Land Cruiser’s headlamp. His hair is white, like a ghost’s, but I do not know why a ghost would need a cane. I do not know where he came from. No one in Juba walks outside after the sun goes down.
With the benefit of hindsight we can see Dirty Dancing for what it is: a Jewish horror movie. In the summer of 1963, a nice family goes to a Jewish resort in the Catskills for a week of bonding and relaxation, only to have their Mount Holyoke-bound seventeen-year-old daughter repudiate them completely in favor of an uneducated blond Adonis in leather pants named Johnny fucking Castle, who has rhumba’d his way into her heart.
There was a sickening noise of splintered bone. The man, who had half stood up, fell to all fours under the impact. She kicked him in his bony and preposterous bare buttocks and hit him a second time, then a third, then again and again, always on the head, hurling curses at him, of which the gentlest was “you son of a bitch.”
It is a strange business to review a book that is manifestly indifferent to whether it will ever be read, much less reviewed. Yet Gass’s commitment to that indifference, whatever the cost, is precisely what makes him worthy of critical attention: he is perhaps the most virtuosic author of the last century; he may also be one of its greatest failures.
In fact, one of the more pleasurable sections of the book contrasts the deli’s exaltation of exquisitely spiced food, glabrous with fat and mustard, with the prim Presbyterian propriety of the 1920s, which held that the road to hell, drink, and masturbation was paved with excessive seasoning.
Last Days is a book about how much it takes for us to admit our own corruption, and our complicity. It’s the opposite of a bildungsroman; it’s what we might call a demolierungroman: a novel about a young man’s steady demolition.
The Parrots may not be a Great Book. It is too unkempt, too messy, too rangy in its attentions, and too ham-fisted in its attempts at symbolism. But because it is all these things, because it is rude, it is sharp, it is vulgar, and it is, at times, as beautiful as the rosy blush on an old dipsomaniac’s cheeks, The Parrots is a terrific book.
The crisp warm shell was fragile as a swallow’s nest. The difference between the flimsy yellow versions flogged in mainland China and this, the real deal, was the difference between Hello Kitty and an actual cat purring and sleeping in your lap.
If coffee is a stimulant, Ethiopian coffee is smoking crack out of a lightbulb fragment. It tastes like the stuff Noah used to seal up the ark.
In addition to writing, Samuel has years of experience as an editor and ghostwriter, having worked with elite agents, New York Times-bestselling authors, and CEOs, on topics ranging from economics to education to the microbiology of industrial yeast production. He also has worked extensively with the World Bank, where he edited projects for presentation to the governments of Morocco and Tanzania. He is available for both short- and long-term editing jobs, at all levels of the writing process.
References available upon request.
Samuel has taught professionally for over a decade. Most recently, he taught creative writing and literature courses at George Mason University. He is comfortable teaching a wide range of subjects, from writing to Chinese (but not, regrettably, mathematics), to students from across the world. As a Master tutor at Cambridge Coaching, he was responsible for designing and leading tutor training workshops. In Fall 2015, he taught a five-week residency to seniors at Thomas Jefferson High School, for which he conceived and taught a course built around Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.