“The books are my brothers,” Fruznik says, in one of his turns of phrase that sound seamlessly romantic. “They are not lifeless things. They are living.”
Our mothers wanted to protect us. So they hid us, beat us for having opinions, for being too inquisitive in a world that doesn’t permit girls to be curious about things.
Whether it’s postponing motherhood or dreams of the perfect dog, the most painful steps to living the life you want are often the most necessary.
Whenever something goes wrong at the New Amsterdam Theatre, it’s because of Olive Thomas. But the people working there don’t mind; they say, “Technically, she was here first.”
When my grandfather threatened to kill himself, I began to wonder if, as he sees it, he has effectively stopped living.
We’d denounce the marches and torches and chants. When that moment passed, we’d continue to live with the ghosts of our country’s peculiar legacy.
When fighting on behalf of the father you love, who do you become?
“Something as beautiful and unique as lavender wine shouldn’t just be at a country club.”
I felt abandoned and alone. I was told that it was at odds with what mothers should feel, do feel, after childbirth.
Natural disasters have a terrible way of reminding us of our capacity for kindness, acting like a yardstick for our collective empathy or apathy.