The Rumpus Book Club Chat with Ottessa Moshfegh
Ottessa Moshfegh talks about her book McGlue, inventing a character from an 1850s newspaper article, and revisiting her work years after she finished writing it.
Posts by tag
mothers
542 posts
Mother Moore
In Hazlitt, Naomi Skwarna writes about using the writing of Lorrie Moore as a mother substitute: Living without a mother is a freedom by turns radical and excruciating. It is…
The Rumpus Interview with Darcey Steinke
Darcey Steinke talks about her new novel, Sister Golden Hair, motherlessness, the Southern cult of femininity, and how becoming a woman has changed since she came of age in a small city in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The Saturday Rumpus Review of Wild
In simplicity there is truth, and being out in wide open spaces often has a way, like high-speed rail, to bring us back to simple things.
The Big Idea: Eula Biss
On Immunity author Eula Biss speaks to Suzanne Koven about mythology, personal freedom, and the history of vaccines.
The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Cold Blue
On freezing winter nights, Cathy Bell finds some small respite from the pain of migraines and maternal estrangement.
If It’s Not One Thing, It’s A Mother
My mother stood before me in her quilted bathrobe, dark hair held back in a ponytail, her eyes sunken, grey. I felt like the narrator of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, who,…
The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Naked Ladies
"I’ve spent most of my life in refusal of my mother’s body."
The Rumpus Late Nite Poetry Show: Rachel Zucker
In Episode 4 of The Rumpus Late Nite Poetry Show, Dave Roderick sits down with poet Rachel Zucker to talk about her latest collection, The Pedestrians, what makes for good comedy, and word associations.
Here Everything Is Possible
My mother died suddenly at a dining room table, in the middle of a wonderful meal, surrounded by a large, extended family that loved her. One minute she was completely immersed in the world—talking, laughing, eating—and the next minute she was gone.
Litany for My Mother’s Body
My mother’s body horrified me. Nine years old, I watched her dress. Her belly was rippled and sagged and scarred—a used-up bag of nothing.