My first brush with existentialism came not through my college-era reading list—Kierkegaard, Kafka—but when I first heard Burt Bacharach. This was in the old country of childhood. A teen-age sister played Dionne Warwick hits—composed by Bacharach—and I felt as though . . . (Subscription required.)
SOURCE: The New Yorker at 12:00AM on December 9, 2013