Michael Chabon has a short story over on Tablet; in it, he negotiates the acquaintance of a boy and his crippled neighbor: There was no menace or queerness in his…
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.
Over at Aeon, Kristin Olson looks at why early childhood memories are so forgettable; still, what’s forgotten from those milky early years may affect us into adulthood. Maybe Mozart in…
[Boyhood] focuses on the fact that we should be paying more attention to ourselves, right here, right now. It isn't asking that you be heroic, but it does ask you to be brave enough to live your life, and elevates the everyday to a higher, more melodic plane.
Magic isn’t about making the impossible happen. Surely that’s a big part of it, but more importantly, magic reminds us how it feels to be bewildered by something.
When summer arrived, the butler for the newcomer the villagers called “Mister Way”—they couldn’t pronounce Hemingway—came into town to fetch the boys. He left the house and followed the long drive to the gate, turned into the village, gathered the boys from their homes and led them back to the Finca, where they found a baseball diamond marked out in the grass.
Think about the books you’ve come back to again and again. Now, think about how many of those were reread during your childhood and teenage years. Come to think of…
She warns me not to speak any of these words out loud. They are so terrible, she explains, that good girls like me, and good women like her, never say them.