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 →
How do you want to be remembered by your students? And, moreimportantly, when?For your awards or accolades and only at the end?In some big ceremony, retirement, or a funeral attended by many,Which of those ways do I want to be remembered by my students? Not any.I want to be remembered during certain times by those... Continue Reading →
