I once wrote a short story that was very well received. All it was was an examination of the minutia of a man's life. The opening page contained a paragraph dedicated to the rituals that my narrator went through every morning with his sock drawer, how he organized and folded his socks in a certain way. He was very particular about his sock drawer, and he had a lot to say about it. more »

One thing I should explain right away. I still refer to the Great Man as my husband, though he divorced me forty years ago. You probably didn’t know I existed, did you, till you started your research. I doubt anyone’s left alive who remembers me. Except him, of course. Coffee? No, stay here, I’ll bring it out. more »

The other day, I was walking by the university and I saw two beautiful 20 year old girls crossing the street and felt envious for a moment. Then I thought: Oh wait, they think they’re fat. They’re walking around thinking about what’s wrong with them. Maybe they weren’t, but there are plenty of girls who are and it’s a long, slow subtraction of happiness. more »

I don’t remember when I started to read. I don’t remember much at all, really. The story goes, I’m told, like this: my thirty-year-old mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and two weeks later was in a wheelchair. A couple of months later, she went into the nursing home. I don’t remember this. I don’t remember her. And I don’t remember when I learned to read. I suppose reading was this. When she went away, my father said I never stopped playing. I never stopped, never... more »

This is the smell of prosperity and doom where fat wooden canneries perch on rocks hungry in fog and cold and damp and metal. And when the boats chug in, thudding heavy from squirming weight, the rust pipe organs shriek trills of C sharp, and the workers come down the hills in oil cloth aprons, rubber boots and hair-nets, some wearing lipstick, some in rainbows of kerchiefs, some laughing, some still tired, already numb. For most, this is the street where America begins in calloused hands and... more »

In these days of singing, Mother glided across the hardwood floors of the house. A hum was on her lips. It seemed that Mother, and her song, was just out of reach of the children. She’d sneak around the dusty corners of the house avoiding the children completely. more »

Because of the oppressive constraints Albanians have had to survive in, most of the literature created in the country proper has taken on the form of poetry—the predominant prose coming from Ismail Kadare, self-exiled in France. But that is beginning to change. Dr. Elsie (one of the few Albanian-literature translators in the world) and Northwestern University Press are about to release the first collection of modern Albanian short stories translated into English, entitled Balkan Beauty,... more »

Public libraries threaten the institution of private property. It is inherently dangerous to propagate the idea that all citizens should share books, and that books are not commodities. If we cannot think of books as commodities, we are in danger of thinking the same way about telecommunications, hydro, health care, land, water, and even food. more »

No we won’t. There are all kinds of things to talk about. Like grass. Sometimes it’s bright, liquid green, sometimes it’s brown, sometimes it’s patchy. Sometimes it’s really soft and cool, sometimes it’s bristly. When it’s dry it hurts your feet when you walk on it barefoot. Is that crabgrass? more »

In the driveway he grappled with the grocery bags, getting them out of the trunk of the Saab, trying to pick up all four at once, fool that he was, bending and lifting like this in such cold weather, at his age no less, something would go, pull, snap. But there you were, he was in a hurry to get inside, hated being watched, and old lady Meltzer next door was at her usual post by her kitchen window looking out at him. Nosey old biddy. more »

A las ratas con tres patas y a mis comadres Las Chillonas, Chingonsísimas Mujeres/ To the three-legged rats and my comadres Las Chillonas, Chingonsísimas Mujeres. Rated G, PG, PG-13, R, NC-17: To all ethnicities, including white people. Breathe in out. Take breaks… more »