Essay by Steven Lewis
Swann’s Way was simply impassable. Even Proust said so.
Swann’s Way was simply impassable. Even Proust said so.
We were so blind that, in the name of righteousness, we committed our own ethical and moral atrocities.
Just lift the delicate veil of literary high-mindedness, and it’s easy to see the disdain for writers on most websites.
There is just something wrong with adults teaching kids how to be rockers.
This year, I added a new event: the Journal Burning Bonfire.
My son, my dear son, was desperately ill, and there was no satisfactory explanation to be found.
I was barreling straight into the maelstrom at 75 miles an hour.
It is only now that I have begun to understand just how bereft little Lillian must have felt at thirteen, a motherless child.
I’m interested only in a narrative presence that is indelible. Writing that is beyond memorable. Unforgettable.
Yet, don’t think for a moment that we five were not swept along in the undeniable currents that carried Neil beyond himself.