When the narrator was a boy, cold titanic masses appeared in the skies above London: Icebergs. As explorers both official and amateur try to climb the snowy pekas, packs of children follow in their frigid shadows.
Parker took a slow sip, the whiskey burning his throat. ‘I never thought it would come to this. I never thought it would go this long.’
Anna leaned into Parker’s shoulder and closed her eyes. ‘Pride does things to time,’ she said.
"If One Story Collected is a stethoscope to the heart of contemporary American fiction, the news is good: despite a run of economic shocks to the publishing industry, the muscle that pumps fresh blood into the system is still beating like a tom-tom.”
People think of compassion as, like, kindness. The image comes to mind of some nice New Age guy bending to something with a look on his face like he’s about to cry. And I don’t think that’s it.
The boy’s death stuck a hot knife into various scars they thought time had healed. Their separate lapsed religious faiths seemed too much to contemplate as their families huddled near them in tears, saying prayers with the curiosity-seekers at the boy’s funeral. Their fury at themselves made them feel scrutinized in the full reveal of public grief. Their judgment of themselves was remorseless.
The three men I’ve bitten arms off of are doing well. I felt guilty for many years.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was too provocative even for the 1920s. His short story collection Taps at Reveille was never published the way he wanted it to be. When the stories came out in The Sunday Evening Post in the 1920s and ’30s, all slang, slurs, and sexual innuendo were edited out. Now, almost a century later, we can read Fitzgerald’s original work in a new Cambridge edition.
But by the far the most influential contribution Eggers has made on the literary landscape is McSweeney’s, the so-called “Quarterly Concern” that has, for the last 15 years, produced some of the most original fiction and nonfiction out there, all packaged in some of the most beautiful and innovative book designs ever printed. Who is this young man? We didn’t know, but when it became clear what it was that he was doing, we all became very interested in his doings.
New York just expects so much from a girl—acts like it can’t stand even the idea of a wasted talent or opportunity. And Miss Adele had been around. Rome says: enjoy me. London: survive me. New York: gimme all you got. What a thrilling proposition! The chance to be “all that you might be.” Such a thrill—until it becomes a burden. To put a face on—to put a self on—this had once been, for Miss Adele, pure delight. And part of the pleasure had been precisely this: the buying of things. She used to love buying things! Lived for it! Now it felt like effort, now if she never bought another damn thing again she wouldn’t even—