Writing Poetry to Find a Father Worth Grieving
We Are All Unreliable Narrators When It Comes to Family
Make Me a City
Jonathan Carr
"The very title of Mr. Winship’s rambling, labyrinthine tome about Chicago in the nineteenth century hints at the confusion that lies in store for the unsuspecting reader. His opus, claims the author, is both 'Alternative' and a 'History.' An 'Alternative,' one wonders, to what? Any attempt to compare Mr. Winship’s book with the work of serious historians who have addressed key periods of the century gone by would soon founder. For a text to be categorized as 'history' implies, does it not, that attention has been paid to historical truth and accuracy? Anyone, then, who ignores facts or, even worse, blithely distorts facts for his own 'Alternative' purposes has no right to attach the label of 'History' to his offering."
Halle Butler on Millennial Burnout and the Frustrations of Living
With Christopher Hermelin and Drew Broussard on So Many Damn Books
“Go With What’s Alive” and Other Writing Advice from Philip Roth
"Writing isn’t hard work, it’s a nightmare."
After the Big One: Can You Imagine America Without Los Angeles?
The San Andreas Fault is Not Messing Around
How Japan Almost Lost a National Symbol to Extinction
On the Cherry Blossom Tree and the English Gardener Who Saved It
Patriarchy and Politics in Idaho After Trump’s Election
Debra Gwartney Pushes Back Against Her Conservative Family
The Island That Inspired Conrad and Lawrence’s Queerest Characters
Living the Artist's Life on Capri
Memories of the Future
Siri Hustvedt
"Years ago I left the wide, flat fields of rural Minnesota for the island of Manhattan to find the hero of my first novel. When I arrived in August of 1978, he was not a character so much as a rhythmic possibility, an embryonic creature of my imagination, which I felt as a series of metrical beats that quickened and slowed with my steps as I navigated the streets of the city. I think I was hoping to discover myself in him, to prove that he and I were worthy of whatever story came our way. I wasn’t looking for happiness or comfort in New York City. I was looking for adventure, and I knew the adventurer must suffer before he arrives home after countless trials on land and sea or is finally snuffed out by the gods. I didn’t know then what I know now: As I wrote, I was also being written. The book had been started long before I left the plains. Multiple drafts of a mystery had already been inscribed in my brain, but that didn’t mean I knew how it would turn out. My unformed hero and I were headed for a place that was little more than a gleaming fiction: the future."
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