Most mornings are like this: you are walking alone, very underdressed for the harsh whip of winter (sorry Mom), multiple [...]
The day before hurricane Sandy hits New York I go to the beach. The subways are shut down. The mayor [...]
New Yorkers of a certain age who dig hoops can tell you that there is a lot of Jewish DNA [...]
"A short but deeply researched, dark, intense biography... studded with original aperçus about the art of biography, the nature of literary influence, and the importance of place to a writer's sensibility." -- Priscilla Gilman, The Boston Globe
Most mornings are like this: you are walking alone, very underdressed for the harsh whip of winter (sorry Mom), multiple book bags in hand, and struggling. You are out when the shop owners dump buckets of soapy water onto the street, to wash away dog piss. You are out when the bums are still too tired to beg or to catcall. You have made friends with the garbage men and bagel makers, who must wonder where you go every morning; why on Earth you are not still in bed like everyone else is your age. And it’s a good question. For you though, the morning struggle is completely voluntary, a struggle that in some sick way gives you joy. The utter bliss of your approaching destination, your sanctuary: Elmer Holmes Bobst library on a Sunday morning at 8am, empty, and perfect.read more...