Until my brother and I were well into our thirties, our father collected vintage cars and motorcycles. He loved their design, the satisfaction of repairing and restoring them, and the social atmosphere of the car shows and swap meets.
It’s not the same as memory. Memory is a record of actual experience: things you did, places you visited, feelings you felt. This is something more subtle and uncanny.
A perplexing fate awaits a reader in an elementary school. There is no place for this strange child in classroom,…
It seems churlish to complain that there is anything insufficient about John Metcalf’s literary output. (It seems especially churlish to…
Eight years ago, on December 31, 2002, I signed a contract for the publication of my novel. It was the…