In question-and-answer sessions after a reading or during an interview, I forget the question if I’m giving too long an answer. And at the end, I can’t remember any of the questions. The more anxious I am about remembering, the more likely I am to forget.
Fiction about mining has a long tradition – Emile Zola’s ‘Germinal’ and Upton Sinclair’s ‘King Coal’ come to mind – and most readers will be aware of the industry’s harsh conditions.
For those who turn to literary biography for salacious details, ‘Flannery’ will disappoint. It is the biography of someone who had very little chance to live in the conventional sense, to experience events.
When memories fade, can one ever really return home?
I used to be able to think. My brain’s circuits were all connected, and I had spark, a quickness of mind that let me function well in the world.
My cerebral cortex, the gray matter that MIT neuroscientist Steven Pinker likens to ‘a large sheet of two-dimensional tissue that has been wadded up to fit inside the spherical skull,’ is riddled instead of whole.
Music seems hard-wired into our very being. It moves us, stirs us to action, sets us in motion, sticks in our memories and minds.
In ‘A Poetics of Optics,’ Equi writes that ‘all images bank on alchemy.’ This idea captures her fundamental sense of poetry as turning common material into something rare and valuable.
One of the strangest aspects of living with certain kinds of memory loss is knowing that the forgetting is happening.
Through his long, productive career, Paul Theroux has mixed nonfiction books about exotic travel with novels set in exotic places. Africa, Singapore, Hong Kong, Honduras – he lives in and writes about places most of us never see.