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.”
Unrelenting snow, bottomless drinks, unexpected acquaintances, and strange sights.
In an abandoned military barracks in rural Germany, Ben Green prepares for the end of the world
Is it okay that he’s over here so often, hooking up my mum’s speakers and swirling his single malt Scotch? We all wonder, we never ask.
Whatever angle you look at it, one detail is incontrovertible: in the end, a man is going to be killed.