Last Book I Loved
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The Last Poem I Loved: “Locking Yourself Out Then Trying To Get Back In” by Raymond Carver
Some deep part of me thinks that this is all poetry is, at best: a clear record of a moment where something catches.
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The Last Book I Loved: The Ocean at the End of the Lane
I couldn’t wait to read it, but I was also infinitely patient. It’s that delayed gratification thing. I’m a sucker for it, and there are books that are worth the wait.
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The Last Book I Loved: Pen & Ink
I was so very tired of being judged and dismissed. The more others pressed their expectations upon me, the more I turned to tattooing to protest.
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The Last Book I Loved: Seven Nights
About a month ago, I found Seven Nights in a moving box. I sat down on the basement floor, started reading, and got flung back to that amazing train ride from Chicago to Houston.
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The Last Book I Loved: Where’d You Go, Bernadette
Bernadette Fox is awesome, but she is also kind of losing it, and I get it.
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The Last Poem I Loved: “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers” by Emily Dickinson
Dickinson realizes that hope shifts and flutters and changes within you.
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The Last Poem I Loved: “Let me tell you” by Miller Williams
They don’t usually realize that every line, every word of a poem, is there because the poet consciously chose that word instead of some other one.
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The Last Book I Loved: I Sang to Survive
“And I think you’d like this,” he said, bringing out a book for me. “My mother wrote it.” I thought: Oh, shit.
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The Last Book I Loved: Krabat
1982 was a shitty year. I was 9 years old and in the 4th grade in Appleton, Wisconsin. My parents were going through a nasty divorce, the kind of thing you see on Jerry Springer.
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The Last Poem I Loved: “For You” by Jim Moore
Suddenly I understood more deeply what the end of the poem means, when the speaker knows his decisions will change his life, but still has no idea what else may come as a result.
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THE LAST BOOK I LOVED: KINGFISHERS CATCH FIRE
Is it wrong to have ideas? This is the central question at the heart of Kingfishers.
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The Last Book I Loved: The Hours
Depression has a peculiar texture: sometimes, rather than sadness, it is an emotional flatline; the sneaking suspicion that you are play-acting.