An Introduction There is no such thing, that great figure of American morality Andrew Mellon said, as an act of virtue that goes unpunished. It often seems that the act of addressing the very subject of virtue is its own punishment. Wherever we turn these days we hear a latest crisis described in terms of…
And a feature about the only son of the famous “Angel of Death,” the man who experimented at Auschwitz on all those dwarfs and twins. I fold the section once in half and then in half again, as if to narrow focus, but glimpse instead a lizard as it shoots up the steps outside then…
The story is told of Ryokan, a teacher who lived in a small hut, that one day while walking along a potato field, he was overtaken by the desire to shit. Now the owner, who was suffering a series of thefts, had hidden nearby. When he saw Ryokan all bent over he leapt up and…
What is this writing life? I was living alone in a house once, and had set up a study on the first floor. A portable green Smith-Corona typewriter sat on the table against the wall. I made the mistake of leaving the room. I was upstairs when I felt the first tremor. The floor wagged…
When I first arrived in this city I heard coins falling through the air like rain, light collecting on dusty sleeves, in gum boxes and tins; the addicts walked by a smoking pail humming into their hands. We hiked one afternoon along the river, picnicked in the ruins of a trolley station and played with…
The Heart wants what it wants— or else it does not care— —Emily Dickinson So still. Not a cricket. In this heat the trees around the house hold motionless even at midnight. I trundle the electric fan, little pool of wind, along with me from room to room, and imagine Emily Dickinson carrying a candle…
Sit, he orders. She sits But Heaven knows he was only talking to the dog. Folding down bedclothes, he discovers his socks she made into them. He's already rewashed dinner dishes while she was in the shower. Still, in bed she alone teaches him how to cross his eyes. Holding his penis like a microphone,…
Sarah didn't pause to watch the water-seller scurry from his spot in the shade to the path leading to the ruins and gardens. The shallow copper bowls ringed to the belts crisscrossing his bright red shirt jangled softly and flashed in the sunlight. The water-seller made a show of splashing the ground in front of…
Almost time to dress for the sun's total eclipse so the child pastes one last face in her album of movie stars—Myrna Loy and Olivia de Havilland—names meant to conjure sultry nights, voluptuous turns across some dance floor borne on clouds. Jean Harlow. Clipped from the Newark evening paper, whole galaxies of splendid starlets gaze,…
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