Feature by Lorraine Berry
Big awards raise big questions: What does 'literary' mean, anyway?
Big awards raise big questions: What does 'literary' mean, anyway?
Poor Manderley. You are now possessed by Rebecca—or at least by her enormous head.
The writer in me wants Boo’s nuanced journalism to trounce Boyle’s Hollywood portrayal of the Mumbai slums.
A retired pediatrician, Steckel is unflinchingly accurate, whether describing an erotic scene or vascular surgery.
On page one, older brother Ira drunkenly insults his mama.
It must be bizarre to be Chad Harbach right now, contemplating the similarities between his own story and that of his main character.
Like children shuttling between the homes of divorced parents, American poets feel obliged to negotiate poetic lineages.
Anger is the sensation of 'peppercorns in a mortar and pestle, grinding around in a circle until they finally yield and crack.'
Greene's memoir is alluring, almost like a reality TV show where you care about the characters.
He wore a blue jumpsuit with flames over his crotch. He swirled a yellow cape on one arm, amid dancers dressed in spider-webbed leotards.