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.”
Around the happy moments with my autistic daughter lurks the anxiety, even worse under the new administration, that she will lose her right to be educated at her neighbourhood school.
Imagine finding out your father wasn't the man you thought he was. Imagine finding out he was your mother's fertility doctor.
Discussing the amphetamine logic of How to Murder Your Life.
Growing up with my lout of a father, my fear-shocked brain demanded that I remain thankful for every moment I remained safe or alive. But I rarely said thanks—until the one day I did.
During her brief '80s reign as one of film's biggest stars, Cher didn't disappear into roles—she brought her indelible presence to bear on women thought to be invisible and cast them into the light.
"No matter how far we drove, I looked back and I could still see them."