If you take the F train from the leafy parts of Brooklyn to Manhattan, there are perhaps fifteen or so thrilling minutes when the train runs on elevated tracks, and the city is ranged before you on the other side of the river: gleaming, silver, the buildings tall and close-set. Then you dip dow...
The pain was infinite, and then it was gone, because he was gone. His broken body lay curled and bloody on the ground, one leg bent under him, his fingers curled over his palms, his shirt shredded, but within him there was nothing. One of the assistants told my mother over and over about his watc...
As writers, we engage this space between with every letter we put down, every comma, every sentence, paragraph, and scene. It’s a curious business, writing toward a reader whom we can’t see, don’t know, and who must be multiple, or at least we hope so. We write toward a point that cannot be fixed...
