Anthony Lane


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Anthony Lane has been a film critic for The New Yorker since 1993. Lane became the deputy literary editor of The Independent, in London, in 1989, and, a year later, a film critic for The Independent on Sunday.

In 2001, Lane’s reviews were awarded the National Magazine Award for Reviews and Criticism. His writings for The New Yorker are collected in the book “Nobody’s Perfect.”

Lane lives in Cambridge, England.

http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/bio... lane

Average rating: 4.21 · 2,612 ratings · 166 reviews · 21 distinct worksSimilar authors
Nobody's Perfect: Writings ...

4.19 avg rating — 444 ratings — published 2002 — 9 editions
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Nobody's Perfect

3.89 avg rating — 9 ratings — published 2005 — 2 editions
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Howard Hodgkin, Paintings 1...

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4.75 avg rating — 4 ratings — published 2007
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Bernard of Clairvaux

really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 2013
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Unio cum Christo. The lost ...

liked it 3.00 avg rating — 2 ratings
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Isle of Thanet Through Time

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 2013 — 2 editions
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How to Start a Community Ga...

1.67 avg rating — 3 ratings — published 2013
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Shipwrecks of Kent

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 1999
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Kent Ports and Harbours

liked it 3.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 2010
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The Kent Coast Gravesend to...

0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings2 editions
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“There’s no two ways about it, Tolkien fans are a funny bunch. I should know, for I was one of them. Been there, done that, read the book, gone mad. I first took on The Lord of the Rings at the age of eleven or twelve; to be precise, I began it at the age of eleven and finished at the age of twelve. It was, and remains, not a book that you happen to read, like any other, but a book that happens to you: a chunk bitten out of your life.”
Anthony Lane

“[W]e are not merely tempered and schooled by failure but compelled, in however subtle a fashion, to become something other than we were.”
Anthony Lane

“Cookbooks, it should be stressed, do not belong in the kitchen at all. We keep them there for the sake of appearances; occasionally, we smear their pages together with vibrant green glazes or crimson compotes, in order to delude ourselves, and any passing browsers, that we are practicing cooks; but in all honesty, a cookbook is something you read in the living room, or in the bathroom, or in bed.”
Anthony Lane, Nobody's Perfect: Writings from The New Yorker



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