Here’s a review I wrote of Nicole Krauss’ new novel, Great House, for The Comment Factory.
Category Archives: words
like Nanny McPhee, but Filipina
Here’s a review I wrote of Mona Simpson’s new novel, My Hollywood, for The Comment Factory.
on being Jewish
Living in New York, passing delis that sold Cel-Ray soda (a.k.a. “Jewish champagne”) and knishes and bumping, literally, into fur hatted Hasids in the subway, I felt self-conscious of being Jewish. Having moved back to California, where every Jew is … Continue reading
grammar–lost in translation
life expanded to a novel
Here’s an excerpt from Joan Didion’s essay “In the Islands,” from her collection The White Album, a great summer read, as is most of her collected nonfiction, in that several pieces are short enough to read at the beach. ¡Disfruta!
Why do all Pixar characters have Sanpaku eyes???
Here’s a review I wrote of Toy Story 3 in 3D for The Comment Factory.
The following letter was sent to the editor Pascal Covici by John Steinbeck, along with a box containing the manuscript of East of Eden: Dear Pat, You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and … Continue reading
in praise of low expectations
I found a piece of paper in an old journal. On it were written quotes from various sources, including this from Harper’s Findings: “The brains of obese women expect more gratification from a chocolate milkshake than is actually experienced; the brains of … Continue reading
Nights in Hackett’s Cove
Those nights lit by the moon and the moon’s nimbus, the bones of the wrecked pier rose crooked in air and the sea wore a tarnished coat of silver. The black pines waited. The cold air smelled of fishheads rotting … Continue reading
a beginning and an end
On the last day of the sixth grade I spent the afternoon with a group of girls, among us some very popular members of our class. We decided to ditch out on the myriad pool parties held in celebration of … Continue reading
The Longest Time
The wind whistled and seagulls cawed. Pam pushed a stroller and I held Emma’s hand as we walked the length of the pier in autumn. Empty except for a few Chinese fishermen and another couple with a kid. I took … Continue reading
Here We Aren’t, So Quickly
Jonathan Safran Foer’s new piece in The New Yorker’s fiction issue feels like lyrics. “I’m not forty-five or eighty-three, not being hoisted onto the shoulders of anybody wading into the sea. I’m not learning chess, and you’re not losing your … Continue reading