Yes, I had nightmares—children do. After all, it takes some time to get used to being alive. And how else, except in the clarity of dreams, are you supposed to see the world all around you that’s hidden by the light of day? —Deborah Eisenberg Exactly eight days until I officially move out of my […]
Someone once asked me where I found all the time to watch all the TV I do. I turned to them, serious as I’d ever been, and said, ‘you find the time for the things you love.’ I’m not ashamed to say I love television. TV shows, books, movies, they’re all the same to me. […]
I need to talk about last week. A few friends reached out to me, actually, about it. I received a few emails from readers as well. While standing in line at Whole Foods, I checked my phone and there they were. Three, four, five, six, twelve messages. Of course I’ve gotten angry mail and hateful […]
Novelist Gertrude Stein said, “Everybody gets so much information all day long that they lose their common sense.” I never really cared for that quote until I realized it was happening to me. I had a call with a friend a few days ago. She told me I didn’t sound like myself, like she could […]
Being Boring by Wendy Cope ‘May you live in interesting times.’ –Chinese curse If you ask me ‘What’s new?’, I have nothing to say Except that the garden is growing. I had a slight cold but it’s better today. I’m content with the way things are going. Yes, he is the same as he usually […]
I went to sleep somewhat sad. But I awoke happy, purely animal. When I opened the bedroom windows and looked out onto the cool, calm garden in the first rays of sunlight, I was certain there was nothing to do but live. – Clarice Lispector I was on the verge of a meltdown this weekend. […]
Donna was always dressed. She wore what was appropriate for the hour of the day. She dressed for dinner. She liked well-tailored boys’ suits. If you went to her room at four A.M.—she was an insomniac—you’d find her sitting at her desk, smoking a cigarette, wearing a perfectly pressed white shirt buttoned to the top, […]
I need an author photo for my book. It’s a request I knew was coming. I had one photo I thought could work, the one I use for this email, the one Jay, my husband, took last year with his new professional camera and because it was in our apartment with its white walls, I […]
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In an American suburb in the early 1980s, students at a highly competitive performing arts high school struggle and thrive in a rarified bubble, ambitiously pursuing music, movement, Shakespeare, and, particularly, their acting classes. When within this striving “Brotherhood of the Arts,” two freshmen, David and Sarah, fall headlong into love, their passion does not go unnoticed–or untoyed with–by anyone, especially not by their charismatic acting teacher, Mr. Kingsley.
Perfect for fans of Barbara Kingsolver and Karen Russell, Where the Crawdads Sing is at once an exquisite ode to the natural world, a heartbreaking coming-of-age story, and a surprising tale of possible murder. Owens reminds us that we are forever shaped by the children we once were, and that we are all subject to the beautiful and violent secrets that nature keeps.
Here is the dazzling saga of two women, the brilliant, bookish Elena and the fiery, uncontainable Lila. Both are now adults; life’s great discoveries have been made, its vagaries and losses have been suffered. Through it all, the women’s friendship has remained the gravitational center of their lives.
At school Connell and Marianne pretend not to know each other. Hes popular and well-adjusted, star of the school soccer team while she is lonely, proud, and intensely private. But when Connell comes to pick his mother up from her housekeeping job at Mariannes house, a strange and indelible connection grows between the two teenagersone they are determined to conceal.
The Bell Jar is the only novel written by the American writer and poet Sylvia Plath. Originally published under the pseudonym “Victoria Lucas” in 1963, the novel is semi-autobiographical, with the names of places and people changed. The book is often regarded as a roman à clef because the protagonist’s descent into mental illness parallels Plath’s own experiences with what may have been clinical depression or bipolar II disorder. Plath died by suicide a month after its first UK publication.
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Here is a fact I generally try to keep secret: I am 30 years old, and I’m living with my parents. As much as I’d like to smudge the narrative, save my pride, and say I’m here because of the pandemic, I’m not. I left Brooklyn in September, because after nine years in the city […]
Cellulite is a bitch. Little dimples, staring back at me in the mirror with a look as if to say “Oh, sorry you don’t want us to hang around here?”. I remember it’s something that crossed my mind whilst having sex with one of my first boyfriends. Wondering if he too was speaking to the […]
A love letter to running and to Maggie Rogers. On a particularly bleak day at the end of March, having been furloughed and in the grip of pandemic panic, I very dramatically did not get out of bed for an entire day or open the curtains, in the manner of an Edwardian society lady with […]