Here’s a review I wrote of Nicole Krauss’ new novel, Great House, for The Comment Factory.
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Here’s a review I wrote of Nicole Krauss’ new novel, Great House, for The Comment Factory.
Here’s a review I wrote of Mona Simpson’s new novel, My Hollywood, for The Comment Factory.
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
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!
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
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
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
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 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
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