He returns her valentines with the misspellings underlined. Her life story read like a subpoena. Her pen leaks in his pocket. He wears the shirt for years. His life reads like an instruction manual. He wears red socks to her mother’s funeral. Her life story reads like a purchase order. She memorizes the work of…
DeWitt Henry, Breaking Into Print, an anthology: Collecting first and early stories from Ploughshares by writers who are now literary lights , Henry serves up an invaluable reference for new writers. Headnotes for each story and interleafed shoptalk make this a sparkling commentary on craft. (Beacon)
A Play in One Act commissioned by McCarter Theatre, Princeton, New Jersey PLAYWRIGHT, middle-aged BLOND ACTRESS, childlike but about thirty Lights up. The Playwright is typing on an old portable typewriter on a stool or a small raised table. His actions need not seem realistic. He faces the audience, brooding. The Blond Actress appears at…
Gyn’s packaged in pastel. I’m in the pink suite of X-Ray wrapped in baby blue (opens-in-the-front) behind a pink- flowered curtain, waiting for the pink- and-white-clad tech. The dressing room’s a cell smaller than solitary, papered pink. In the waiting room a fretful pink- with-fever baby settles at the breast of her mama. I reminisce:…
Mary Gordon, Seeing Through Places: Reflections on Geography and Identity, a memoir: Eight beautiful essays map out the places that have shaped Gordon’s life and writing, from her grandmother’s house to a Cape Cod writer’s retreat to her Manhattan apartment. (Scribner)
You know, there is this amazing thing that happens when you begin to create a common history with someone. Each detail is fascinating. You could just go to a mall and hang near the fountain in the atrium, and you’ll find yourself going over that time as if it were the Zapruder film. -Mark Leyner…
You say there’s no time like the present. But what is the present here? I’ve watched TV for ages and seen movies since I was three. TV’s daily life and movies are a communal fantasy. Today is in color, yesterday’s in black and white, and there’s no agreement about tomorrow. I hear music everywhere, and…
Bill Knott, Laugh at the End of the World: Collected Comic Poems 1969- 1999: Knott’s tenth volume gathers three decades of virtuoso poems, showcasing his iconoclastic wit, his unique view of the world, and his fiercely original language, proving Marvin Bell was right when he said that Knott can “twist the neck of syntax until…
translated by Jonathan Galassi Desire for your bright hands in the half-shadow of the flame: they smelled of oak and roses; and death. Ancient winter. The birds out foraging seed were suddenly snow; like our words. A little sun, an angel’s halo, then mist: and the trees, and us made of air in the morning.
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