When you’re writing a long book, it’s nice to have encouragement. I’m not talking about the giddy editor; or the eye-strained, proofreading spouse; or the steadfast mother. I’m talking about the gods. It’s good to have them on your side. . . .
In a characteristic mingling of modesty and fierce pride, Mavis Gallant has said that “one of the hardest things in the world is to describe what happened next.” It’s hard because of the value- and emotion-laden nature, not just of . . .
In 1898, Paula Modersohn-Becker, twenty-two and busy with her sketches, wrote that she was reading Marie Bashkirtsev’s diary. “Such an incredible observer of her own life. And me? I have squandered my first twenty years.”
I discovered Modersohn-Becker’s Letters and . . .
Our cat was raptured up to heaven. He’d never liked heights, so he tried to sink his claws into whatever invisible snake, giant hand, or eagle was causing him to rise in this manner, but he had no luck.
When . . .