Feature by Tim Weed
If you’re stocking the shelves of your survival shelter, don’t forget to throw in a few gripping novels.
If you’re stocking the shelves of your survival shelter, don’t forget to throw in a few gripping novels.
An array of women’s voices challenge what counts as environmental literature.
I’ve been tempted to think the typical upper middle-class white student seems overly fearful of healthy intellectual debate.
My paperback copy, first purchased in 2004, is tattered and coffee-stained with faded Post-it Notes.
Having a famous parent is a leg up to nowhere. It made sense to people that Kurt Vonnegut’s son would have mental health problems.
I imagined Atwood as a magician who had allowed herself to be handcuffed and locked in a box, just to show how easily she could break free.
Some people believe there’s a secret formula to writing a bestseller—or that anyone can do it.
All the publishers jumping on the women’s erotica bandwagon because of this series have missed the point.
More than a few graduates do recollect the Workshop’s warts: episodes of cutthroat competition, the classroom’s sexual jungle.
Those who believe the fey little spinster never took off her ghostly white dress may require smelling salts.