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.
The standard explanations for why things have happened this year have turned out to be as useless as the most far-out conspiracy theories.
I don’t have a title sitting in the car. There is anonymity in that moment, a complete lack of pressure. I’m just the driver, caught in a free, smooth space between eddies.
When I finally managed to get out of bed and return to my life, I was determined to be an expert on how to grieve. I was going to fuck grief up so hard.
In the aftermath of a video game, I find myself ready to emerge into 2020 afresh, anew, and aglow from a screen of pixels and a well-rested body crusted with mineral.
The days go so fast, you have to steal the nights, and when all the nights slip away, that’s it. I’m not ready.
These people, these murder victims—the only thing separating their fate and mine is a thin hair of the intangible.