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The Spring Revel
It was hard to fully appreciate The Awakening when I first read it, given to me by my sophomore-year English teacher to appease my rage against all the Hemingway we were assigned.
In our column Poetry Rx, readers write in with a specific emotion, and our resident poets take turns prescribing the perfect poems to match. This week, Kaveh Akbar is on the line.
She danced with abandon, and her conversation was peppered with salty language and a lot of table thumping.
Our monthly column Feminize Your Canon explores the lives of underrated and underread female authors.
“One man wrote me, saying, ‘You know who you are? You're nothing but a Captain Bly pissing up a drainpipe!’”
There are few books for those of us on the other side of fertility. I could not find a single story that did not equate menopause with disease and death.
Cooking up recipes drawn from the works of various writers.
In Brazil we knocked the doors of poor people. They answered in threadbare football jerseys, in stained mesh shorts, in Havaianas thin as reeds. We called them humble. We called them receptive. We were Mormon missionaries. We were chest-deep in optimism.
I used to be friendly with a kid called Sam Bamburger, whose mother was the first woman I ever heard of to get divorced. Sam was about nine at the time and up to that point something of an all-American kid, except maybe shorter and paler.