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.
Sometimes we never made it to the lesson and simply reflected on the disasters unfolding—not as a way to understand, but to talk about the impossibility of understanding.
The brand of simplistic and overzealous moralism that exists online has long been tedious, but the pandemic has made it even more so.
Talking to the author of The Kidnapping Club about narrativizing a history many tried to keep quiet and why New York was such a potent pro-slavery city.
I don’t believe in guilty pleasures, and I do believe in taste, but I also believe in context.
It’s comforting to know that in the annals of history, my day-to-day personal suffering won’t show up at all. Unfortunately, in the present, the details are apparent, if only to me.
Some find comfort in conspiracy; I’ve found it in asking the same questions about plants and insects and mold my seven-year-old self might.