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  • Least Likely To (short fiction)

    Least Likely To           Meet four boys born in the City of L: The boy born in February was bathed in the kitchen sink. He was slight, pale, had pimples. His father drove a green bus. The boy born in June was called ‘a horrible piece of red meat’ by his father.(…)

  • Just a glance

    Following, a glance into the draft of my new book (working title) Found and Lost  – a quaisi-biographical epistolary collection meditating on six years and six deaths, future work in this crumpled world, life after the death of loved ones. A few lines from Part V – A Curtain Blows into a Room Saw a bin of basketballs at Gristides(…)

  • Hospitality

    After two weeks in Dublin, five weeks on Hydra, my friend Dan bullied me into accompanying him to Bulgaria. I resisted the pressure for a week and finally (because he was also helping me edit a new piece of work*) he used his PhD in bullying to a good end. I blew off my return ticket to New(…)

  • What now? Tearing pages…

    Having calmed (I thought) my young, neglected novella along with my eleven other disturbed creations the other night, I entered a period of empty-headed wellbeing that, unfortunately, was rudely interrupted just now just as the sun was sinking into the Aegean Sea. I heard a disturbing sound that made the hair on my neck stand up straight. I could hardly believe my ears. Again,(…)

  • Heard sobs coming from my bookcase

    Last night I woke because the usual velvety silence (punctuated by the sound of an occasional tiny caïque in which a solitary fisherman softly put-putts through the moonlight or a disoriented rooster crowing) was interrupted. I could swear I was hearing the sound of  weeping. I sat up. It wasn’t coming from outside on either terrace, above or below, I climbed down(…)

  • The coughing girl

    A large bumble bee has been noisily jackhammering the west-facing window glass near me, can’t seem to find his/her way out through an open door not three feet away. Is he/she stupid, or what? I’m tired. I’m working. The beauty of the scenery stops me in my tracks  wherever I turn. A 90-year-old red-headed relative died near San(…)

  • Remembering Jules Schelvis, a friend

    Sent to me yesterday by my Dutch friend Friso van Gent: SOBIBOR-OVERLENVENDE JULES SCHELVIS (95) OVERLEDEN, the title of an article from NOS, Netherlands. My heart began to ache, Now it’s Jules. Wrenching, but not surprising. More surprising had been, year after year, the unique New Year cards designed and printed and signed by Jules(…)

Just a glance

Following, a glance into the draft of my new book (working title) Found and Lost  – a quaisi-biographical epistolary collection meditating on six years and six deaths, future work in this crumpled world, life after the death of loved ones. A few lines from Part V – A Curtain Blows into a Room Saw a bin of basketballs at Gristides(…)

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Hospitality

After two weeks in Dublin, five weeks on Hydra, my friend Dan bullied me into accompanying him to Bulgaria. I resisted the pressure for a week and finally (because he was also helping me edit a new piece of work*) he used his PhD in bullying to a good end. I blew off my return ticket to New(…)

Read more...

What now? Tearing pages…

Having calmed (I thought) my young, neglected novella along with my eleven other disturbed creations the other night, I entered a period of empty-headed wellbeing that, unfortunately, was rudely interrupted just now just as the sun was sinking into the Aegean Sea. I heard a disturbing sound that made the hair on my neck stand up straight. I could hardly believe my ears. Again,(…)

Read more...

Heard sobs coming from my bookcase

Last night I woke because the usual velvety silence (punctuated by the sound of an occasional tiny caïque in which a solitary fisherman softly put-putts through the moonlight or a disoriented rooster crowing) was interrupted. I could swear I was hearing the sound of  weeping. I sat up. It wasn’t coming from outside on either terrace, above or below, I climbed down(…)

Read more...

March 29, 1944

A question I’ve been asked often during talks I’ve give on Anne Frank Remembered, co-written by Miep Gies and myself. [see photo below, Miep and I in Holland just before her 100th birthday]. The question: Why did Anne rewrite her original diary, change names, do various versions? It’s answered here. Taken from The Writer’s Almanac, sent(…)

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PS in Swords

Must get bus at 4:30 to airport to make flight. Told to turn clock forward one hour. Did so: 3:30 became 4:30… (Had put clocks forward two weeks ago in New York. Have now lost not one but two hours of my life.) While waiting for my take-out Irish Puff Pastry with steak and gravy a(…)

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