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the last book i loved
206 posts
The Last Book I Loved: The Telling
After what seems like a lifetime of bracing and bottling, I've gotten closer to settling my fourth-grade trauma.
The Last Book I Loved: After Birth
I wanted what Ari wanted: affirmation that I could be a good mother while making mistakes and having ugly, difficult thoughts.
The Last Book I Loved: Beautiful Ruins
I’d been treated for cancer, left my husband, patched things up, and just as life was veering back towards Normalville, it took a headlong swerve.
THE LAST BOOK I LOVED: KINGFISHERS CATCH FIRE
Is it wrong to have ideas? This is the central question at the heart of Kingfishers.
Weekend Rumpus Roundup
First, a little creative encouragement from Grant Snider to jump start August. Then, in this review, Andrew Fulmer examines Jeff Alessandrelli’s use of the poetic “factoid.” Alessandrelli makes a series of successful allusions…
The Last Book I Loved: Let The Great World Spin by Colum McCann
The way LTGWS lovingly caressed every carnal description of Manhattan’s byways and alleys, tenement flats, assisted-living towers, and half-way houses was a revelation in today’s post-Minimalist world.
THE LAST BOOK I LOVED: The Original 1982 by Lori Carson
I was only starting to let myself feel what I had lost 14 years earlier, when I had reluctantly placed our third child – the only one I managed to deliver – with an adoptive family. Like Lori Carson, I was love-haunted. Unlike Carson, I had no words.
THE LAST BOOK I LOVED: WONDER BOYS BY MICHAEL CHABON
Michael Chabon's career is often the work of a writer hell-bent on destroying the line between "literary" and "genre," and his most famous work is an epic adventure novel about comic-book creators.
The Last Book I Loved: The Geographical History of America by Gertrude Stein
I’m quite sure that if I lived when Gertrude Stein did, I would have not enjoyed her person—the pronouncements, the relentless self-promotion, the blatant self-absorption (“I am a genius”). If…
The Last Book I Loved: The Unnamed
Little bits of The Unnamed are stuck in my head. A man clinging to a telephone pole in a flood. A daughter and her father on a bench in Tompkins Square Park. A sense of loss. A sense of isolation.
The Last Book I Loved: A Time to Be Born
Ernest Hemingway purportedly said of Dawn Powell that she was his “favorite living writer.” Powell’s reputation has dwindled since then, and so I picked up A Time to Be Born in an…