No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
“Miss Klopkin,” they say. “Why can’t we rhyme?” And “this is hard” and “what’s the point of close reading?” What is the point of diving below the surface to reveal a deeper meaning when it’s right there in front of us?
"Besides me, can you name one other person whose life has worked out well enough to even speak about?"
Ezra paused, "No, I can't."
Lincoln never intended to get into finance, let alone abandon his acting career in L.A. But then he needed to help pay his mother's bills, keep the roof of his childhood home over her head. The days of standing in casting lines were over.
The bookseller smiled. “Infinity is right under your nose, my friend.”
We were standing in the backyard of our grandmother’s house on Canal Street, in New Orleans. The air was thick and vines hung from the trees. He wore jeans and a white t-shirt. His hair was greased just so. Eddie thrust his fist out toward an imaginary cheek. “Rotate your fist when you hit the other guy’s face,” he said.
Janine has fled, holding her arm. He’d leaned against the window to part the threadbare curtains and watched her go.