History is nakedly cruel and random, messy, inefficient, and thus, it must be clothed with story.
A place of Grace where you could be assured, comforted and uplifted, all at the same time.
I have slept in Elvis’s bedroom. Not too many people can say, can they?
Forty-five years after his death Elvis remains both American myth and American mirror.
Twelve solid hours of music, movies, jigsaw puzzles and Fools Gold Loaf.
Before writing Graced Land I had not given Elvis Presley a thought since the day he died
For eighteen years the ideas for this short novel hovered over my imaginative life.
“A History of the World from the Time of Adam to the Close of the Apostles’ Time,”
“Hi,” I said, laughing out loud, “and I’m Virginia Woolf!”
Memory will not be restricted to the needs of memoir. Memory is not merely unruly, but anarchic.
The past became like the creatures in Where the Wild Things Are, baring its terrible fangs, breathing its terrible breath.
Memoir classes are especially poignant: the nature of the genre requires trust.
All pasts are unruly. All pasts resist the tidy, codifying insistence of the page, resist the will of the writer.
What, for an author, could be better than unboxing day?
I said I always wished I could see uniform trade paperbacks of my work, books that could sit on a shelf and actually look to be related, visibly related, instead straggling like unruly foster children from different homes.
To The Lighthouse is an unequaled, exquisite cocktail of temporality and mortality.
She must have been one of the most cosmopolitan women of her era. Maybe any era.
Authors who write about film are the very people for whom the term nerdgasm was invented.
These pages pulsate with the life of the great city Boswell loved, with youth, and confidence and bouts of doubt and longing.
Nearly a century apart Sherwood Anderson and Elizabeth Strout created unique modes of storytelling where one character’s deepest heartache or greatest failure is but a footnote in the life of another.