Women, from a young age, are conditioned to be the diplomats, the carers, the ones who absorb the blame. And so a woman who is distressed might stage a silent ...
All gone. All quiet. A far distant grus grus then silence. He chews on, chews over his sense of estrangement, his speech now unconfident, self-conscious, swollen crumb to his tongue, ...
A brilliant and troubling portrait of female sex addiction from the bestselling author of Lullaby
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“I’m tired of talking about race,” a white male friend said to me. “We’re all equal, we all get the same opportunities; we all got the same rights now.”
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Did I want to find out? When my sister was killed, it broke my family – both its individual members and the larger whole.
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Her name is Loretta, and she lives at the end of the road in the house by the pond, on Rambling Lane.
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Do it then, you fuck. Fuck you, you think as you lean into the wind and throttle down hard, gunning the bike just feet from the glistening blue Maserati’s rear ...
Voice is not just about style or a distinctive style, it is inseparable from the writing itself.
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You’ll drive around the roads of your hometown with their quaint names like River and Church, long black streets with a yellow middle pulling you in and spitting you out ...
I don’t remember the kid’s name; the only impression he made on me was his face: scabbed over, crusted with dried blood all across his chin.
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An artist labours towards truth in her work
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I can never remember. When I wake up, I mean. In the dream, I can. It’s always the same one. –From the Archives
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We had, however, not experienced a moment’s error in Japan’s transport schedules – so far.
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He returned some drops of water from the jug to its source, the creek that ran to the river, and touched each banana tree while looking at the moon.
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In the dark of night she could hear the distant murmurings of a world beyond, a world that was neither here nor there.
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“Η καρδιά. Yi kardiá. Heart.”
“Η βάρκα. Yi várka. Boat.”
“Η χώρα. Yi hóra. Country.”
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Entertainment, family style
About ...
Writer’s block has taken on an almost mythical quality, and the image of a writer staring at a blank page is a familiar trope.
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He turns his head and notices the afternoon glare bouncing off the shiny black helmet, the Guardia National that kept looking at him
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The audience is catapulted into a non-narrative time-suspended vortex of loss, death, and nostalgia, mixed up with hilarious absurdity.
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