The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
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The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
Standing in the wreckage of these spaces unlocks a sensation people often crave, but can’t name.
It’s an imagined past, a pastoral imaginary, an alternate timeline in the multiverse.
“Bird,” he cried, “I come on behalf of the emperor. Your voice is all anyone speaks of.”
The author of People Collide on body swaps, Gender Vertigo, and cruelty as a path to honesty.
The author of Daughter on writing as channeling, emails as gunfire, and emotional math.
The bush pricked everyone’s fingers and provided handfuls of blush-red fruit for the price, if you were willing to pay it. Every summer I lived in that house I was glad to.
How the actor Boris Karloff obscured his Anglo-Indian roots and reinvented himself into an icon of Hollywood horror.