Sometimes, When You're Writing Sentence

Could We Betray Our Parents By Going Back To Them?

Sometimes It Can Feel Like The Whole Globe Is Spinning With Irredeemable Losses, Capricious Natural Disasters And Crimes So Outrageously Evil They Dismantle Any Attempt To Solve Or Explain Them.

Much Of The Way Books Get Classified Has To Do With Marketing Decisions. I Think It's More Useful To Think Of Literary Books And Sci-fi/fantasy Books As Existing On A Continuum. To Oppose Them, To Suggest That One Category Excludes The Other, Always Feels Bogus To Me. The Great Leonard Michaels Line Is "i Wanted Proximity To Darkness, Strangeness"? That's What I'd Say I Want From A Book, Regardless Of Where It Falls On The Fantastical Spectrum - That Suspense Connected To A Particular Human Character, Rather Than Just Some Mechanized Plot.

It Was Sad And Fierce All At Once, Alive With A Lonely Purity.

Granana Doesn't Understand What The Big Deal Is. She Didn't Cry At Olivia's Funeral, And I Doubt She Even Remembers Olivia's Name. Granana Lost, Like, Ninety-two Million Kids In Childbirth. All Of Her Brothers Died In The War. She Survived The Depression By Stealing Radish Bulbs From Her Neighbors' Garden, And Fishing The Elms For Pigeons. Dad Likes To Remind Us Of This In A Grave Voice, As If It Explained Her Jaundiced Pitilessness: "boys. Your Grandmother Ate Pigeons."