Fox brings to the family saga a poet’s eye for those details that convey the hidden mass of the iceberg and its ineluctable momentum, and her incisive prose cuts a channel through the ice of family silences to show us the choppy waters of lore, of secrets, of hidden loves from which we all emerge.
In order to travel back in time, a writer needs a map. Not a GPS, redirecting and redirecting as it evaluates traffic from a satellite. No mechanized voice from my phone, scolding me to take a left in fifty, forty, thirty feet. When I traveled to 1880s America, I used a physical map.
As a child I thought the name was pity helmet, which is what my mother called it each time she spotted our neighbor — a divorced man with custody of five — wearing one.
The book burns hot for the entirety of its read-time, and ultimately, leaves the reader with a puzzling-yet-fitting finish.
Not all girls leave a slime trail wherever they go; but the ones who do, Martine’s aunt says, are uniquely beautiful.
Cary Holladay and Charles Dodd White recently read each other’s new books, swapped questions and answers, and found mon ground in dangerous characters, moments of weirdness, and “thoughts that would shame hell.”
I’m only humming, not singing with my whole throat and mouth, not letting the vibrations emanate even from my sharp, pearly teeth — yet still, the boat es nearer, and the people on board don’t seem to know why. I stop then, and watch, as they shake their heads to dispel my influence, and the boat gradually resumes its original course.
Through a smartly constructed plot, Stillwell suggests that conflicting impulses—to stay or to go, to e close or create distance—may be present in the same person.
Anyone meticulously following the strings will be rewarded by the rich tapestry of character development Hasanat’s writing brings to each story.