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.
After years struggling with painful vulvodynia, my relationship hit a breaking point. When I finally found help, I had to wonder who I'd be if I had never learned to fear sex.
Searching for where I belong, I find myself cobbling together a sort of mongrel Judaism—half-remembered and syncretic and porous and contradictory and all mine.
It couldn’t happen without effort. Nothing happened without effort, except catastrophe.
I used to laugh at my mother's Russian rituals, but now, I see them as a reminder of a home I'm in danger of forgetting.
The author of The Lost Girls of Camp Forevermore on summer camps, inexplicit racism and the rarity of male authors who can write believable women characters.
For decades, the two maintained a warm correspondence that traces a remarkable friendship between two of the twentieth century's most formidable women.