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.”
I kept my dad's name, even after he left, and I'm still not sure why. Now it's too late to change. Isn't it?
I spent my year eavesdropping on people who believe that an inability to do things for oneself is not only impractical or short-sighted, but morally punishable.
When people asked me why I had come to Budapest, I told them it made sense at the time.
What happens when we purposefully set aside time to meditate on the multifaceted nature of Black joy in the face of Black suffering?
I now find myself repeatedly asking which is the more powerful Jewish tradition, our love of ourselves or the world’s hatred of us?
Modern music streaming services are rigorously quality-controlled from the instant the songs are uploaded by labels and artists—there’s no longer any room for happy accidents.