One February night in T.S. Eliot’s mid-twenties, he went his aunt’s house in Boston. It was 1913, and the occasion was one of those delightful-sounding “evenings of amateur theatricals” that…
I spent my 20s dilly-dallying, not-publishing, so sure of rejection by MFA programs that I never applied. So I am always happy to find new examples of people who did not…
One of the more curious themes of the coverage of Adrienne Rich’s death this week is that people seem to want to rescue her from her political beliefs. David Orr’s…
Somehow I’d never heard of Sylvia Townsend Warner until the New Yorker posted its fiction podcast this week, which is Colm Toìbìn reading one of Warner’s stories. In my life,…
Truth be told I don’t like macho posturing in literary feuds — or rather, the only thing I like about it is the opportunity it provides me to practice the…
So look, Ann Patchett’s writing is great and the Sexual Revolution is great and I think everyone should be in favour of birth control because really, why not? But I’m…
I’m going to break the Rumpus rule against pop culture here for a minute. (Hell, it’s Saturday.) It’s only to note Gwyneth Paltrow’s complaint, this week, that the New York…
Perhaps you listened to the recent “This American Life” episode about conditions in the Apple-contractor Foxconn’s factories in Shenzhen. It was voiced by a man named Mike Daisey, who had…
The post I’d planned first for you this Rumpus Saturday keeps growing and growing and growing, like Violet Beauregarde in the Wonka factory. I need to hack at it a…
Because I read the internet and because I have a stake in the question, I suppose, like everyone else I’ve been thinking about women and writing. There are new byline…
There were, apparently, only six books in Jeanette Winterson’s house, growing up. And she managed to become one of the world’s greatest writers, anyway. (So says I.) I can’t decide…