In her travel memoir In Other Words Jhumpa Lahiri explores how and why she, a highly acclaimed, prize winning fiction writer in English chose to leave the United States, move to Italy with
A memoir is a tricky thing. An art form that is often more interested in Truth than it is in facts. A work in which reality is posted through the filter of self.
Editor Meredith Maran’s latest book, which follows her previous collection, Why We Write, gathers together the thoughts of Twenty Memoirists on Why They Expose Themselves (and Others)
In “Mercury,” the first of four all-too-brief essays that together comprise the final thin volume of his writings, entitled Gratitude, Oliver Sacks writes of his patients “in their ninetie
Sheila Hamilton and her daughter Sophie suffered unimaginably and yet found their way to wholeness again. Both were entirely upended by the behavior and suicide of their husband and father, David.
There’s a Terrance Hayes line that goes “A bandanna is a useful handkerchief, but a handkerchief is a useless-ass bandanna.” A golfer or three-point-shooter might say “Never over, never in.” An unc
“What I feel, I cannot unfeel. What I know I cannot unknow. I can no longer escape my culpability, the mess that I have made. My crime is all I see. My crime is all there is.”
According to Roz Savage every day is a choice: You can drift along or work. Drifting can be very pleasant. Work requires purposeful, intentional effort.
