The author Lorrie Moore reviews Friday Night Lights for the New York Review of Books, expressing surprise at finding two other writers at a Manhattan party who also wanted to discuss the show (really, only two?) and discovering their mutual affection for Tim Riggins.
“The people I was speaking with mostly wanted to discuss Read More
The PEN/Faulkner Foundation announced the nominees for its fiction award today–Sherman Alexie’s War Dances, Barbara Kingsolver’s The Lacuna, and Lorraine Lopez’s Homicide Survivor’s Picnic, Lorrie Moore’s A Gate at the Stairs, and Colson Whitehead’s Sag Harbor.
“I’m delighted by how richly American these books are,” said judge Rilla Askew in a statement. “Elegant, Read More
In March of last year, The Atlantic published an essay by Lori Gottlieb titled “Marry Him! The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough,” which Ms. Gottlieb wrote when, in her idealistic search for the One, she found herself alone in her 40s with a son she had via a sperm donor. A book based Read More
If you need to be told what status galleys are, chances are you’ve never had the pleasure of owning one. Or, if you need a reminder, here’s the piece we did last summer. Basically the term refers to an advance reader’s copy of a highly anticipated book that hasn’t been published yet. If you Read More
Not long ago, some friends and I wandered into a Friday-night art opening in Chelsea for the actor—and apparently the painter—Martin Mull. Like everyone else, we drifted from painting to painting while pretending not to steal glances at Mr. Mull, swirling a glass, off to the side. There should be a German word for when Read More
Not long ago, some friends and I wandered into a Friday-night art opening in Chelsea for the actor—and apparently the painter—Martin Mull. Like everyone else, we drifted from painting to painting while pretending not to steal glances at Mr. Mull, swirling a glass, off to the side. There should be a German word for when Read More
Paula Fox leaned out of her ground-floor entrance and said: “Down here. We tend not to use that entrance.” It was early afternoon on an unusually balmy winter day, and the street in front of her brownstone was empty and quiet. Much of the house was dark, but she didn’t turn on the lights.
