“Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination,” said Oscar Wilde. And while, yes, I have been a fan of Wilde since I played Lady Bracknell in a drama camp production of The Importance of Being Earnest, I must confess that I am the exception to...
I’ve studied Shakespeare and read Hemingway. I’ve marveled at Poe and Hawthorne, Pynchon and Roth, Murakami and King, too. Philip Levine taught me the simple truth, and Pablo Neruda showed me love and despair. Rabindranath Tagore breathed light into my body, and Juan Felipe Herrera turned me on my cabeza. Bukowski? He just punched me... Continue Reading →
Fuck. Pardon my French. But fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. FUCK.Oh, it could have been worse: I could have neglected to make an appointmentin advance and wound up in a line snaking outside the door, around thebuilding; I could have flunked the written test more than once. Grâce à Dieu,my partners in this morning’s menage à trois... Continue Reading →
