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It was that night, technically the next day but only moments into it when the bluebottle disturbed my sleep, knocking its clumsy wings and sets of eyes against my window.
Novelists are caught in a double bind. The novel is a sprawling expanse that offers us the scope for detailed excavation and explanation.
After dinner, we headed home, oblivious that Miami in general, but 79th Street and Biscayne Boulevard in particular, had gone up in flames.
That’s where we come in, we’re watching through the writer, seeing them as freaks because that’s how they’re portrayed.
It is fashionable to rediscover brilliant but unrecognized records. Perhaps it’s an appeal to the notion that good work should be acknowledged — that wrongs are righted by belated praise.
To get under a word’s skin is sheer joy. To tap into the incredible power of language to shape a story is a grand adventure.
You’ll see us around town. Staring intently into screens, passably dressed, tipping fairly well to counter-balance our loitering.