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.
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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.”
She stops to look into her mother's face. It is smooth and blank as a stone. Nothing emerges; nothing shifts.
We know the orcas are right to sink yachts but we can’t help but betray our infatuation with a certain lifestyle.
Today I heard five Shakespearean insults walking along the corridor, and if I hear one more, it will be a good day, an even day.
In the offline world, it’s totally possible for something to be great and terrible at the same time.
The author of Death Valley on writerly solitude, the demise of Twitter, and Best Western Grab 'n' Go breakfasts.