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 […]
And if you can’t survive in this world, you had better make a world of your own. – Jeanette Winterson Day 30 of quarantine, Friday night was not a good night for me. In fact, all of last week was difficult. Outwardly, I probably appeared on edge, irritable, maybe a little drunk, but inside, I […]
There is a holiness to exhaustion –Carrie Fountain A few months ago I was talking to a friend about our high school days. Remember when we used to go to school at like seven in the morning, sit through seven hours of classes, then two hours of hockey practice, go home, complete our homework, then […]
What’s so hard about that first sentence is that you’re stuck with it. Everything else is going to flow out of that sentence. And by the time you’ve laid down the first two sentences, your options are all gone. – Joan Didion I’m not someone who reads the back of books. I’ve been told by […]
Ballet is more than a profession – it is a way of life. – Margot Fonteyn Awhile ago a friend and I were talking about religion. She belonged to a church whose ideology was based on the idea that there is no one ideology – God cannot be found in one form. As a teen, […]
Day 15 of quarantine, Toilet paper supply is stable, but tensions are high. I spent Friday night cooking vinegar braised chicken and roasted beats when I began to feel that throb of restlessness. It’s coming, I thought. I drowned it in the last bottle of wine I had stashed away, unnerved by the fact that […]
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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.
In The Namesake, Lahiri enriches the themes that made her collection an international bestseller: the immigrant experience, the clash of cultures, the conflicts of assimilation, and, most poignantly, the tangled ties between generations. Here again Lahiri displays her deft touch for the perfect detail — the fleeting moment, the turn of phrase — that opens whole worlds of emotion.
In 2012, Elena Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend introduced readers to the unforgettable Elena and Lila, whose lifelong friendship provides the backbone for the Neapolitan Novels. The Story of a New Name is the second book in this series.
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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 […]