No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
when I can sit quietly with my son, a struggle that grows harder as he grows up, so that the memory I choose to unfold is not the wolf, or the river, or the geysers, but instead the hour I spent reading to him beside the washing machines in Bozeman
Now that is Mr. Gilvarry. That’s what writers are supposed to do, transport you, and entertain.
and as arduous as they might be, may we cultivate Bon courage, as Rodin declared to Rilke once when he wished him goodnight.
You’d have to have a heart of stone not to love this novel. Three young women lounging in an ancient graveyard in the Yorkshire sticks that Gardam knows so well have all received good news.
The steps down to this labyrinth are large no problem for my feet as many are. Miners who grew up in the job were small.
You’d think the Western was played out. That after Peckinpah’s wild bunch had shot its way through a line of temperance marchers, Jodorowsky had treated us to his gunslinger-and-naked-kid acid trip of El Topo, and we’d watched Charles Bronson’s and Jill Ireland’s three hour love story in the comedy Western From Noon Till Three there’d be nothing left. Nope. The Western is the zombie-genre of American film. Just when you think it’s dead it heaves back to life.