Last Sunday, thinking it was Father’s Day, I wrote a few lines about my father that I posted along with the photo on the left. In a blink I was scolded: not only wasn’t it Father’s Day, but the baby in the photo wasn’t even me (not that I’d said it was). So: a) since(…)
I had been invited to write a piece by the editor of a new gay men’s magazine who happened to be a friend of mine. It was not an easy time in my life, my future prospects were wobbly to say the least, I had a weak-kneed skill set, an 11 year old son to(…)
My father taught economics at City College in Harlem, New York for 63 consecutive years without missing a day. That is, until he was 83. Had he been able to teach to the last day of his life he would have, he loved teaching (especially poor, smart, culturally deprived kids like himself) that much. When(…)
Because I spent 20 years writing about WWII and the Holocaust, including two Anne Frank-related books, I never fail to notice Anne Frank’s birthday in June. It’s today. Although the clock has continued to tick for the rest of us, Anne remains frozen in time, evermore a young girl. Despite the passing of vast expanses of time since(…)
Peel THE POTATO EATER and marinate in CLAIRVOYANT for 5 hours. Crush THE POTATO EATER and add the soaked LOST AND FOUND, making sure MEMORIES OF ANNE FRANK has been squeezed out. Put in 2-3 spoonfuls of CLAIRVOYANT and LOVE IN THE SECOND ACT and beat the mixture adding DEVIL’S MISTRESS drop by drop. If(…)
Now that my novella THE POTATO EATER is on the window ledge about to leap into publication, I’m dithering. Has it’s raw lusciousness gone over the top? Should I have left Padric’s story in the banker’s box where it languished gathering dust for 30 years? Are there seats at my table for both my dour(…)
They’ve got guts. So? They’re willing to stick their neck out to publish innovative work that mainstream publishers (so worried about sales figures) rarely will. Like who? Like me. Innovative in what way? My novella THE POTATO EATER is more akin to a PowerPoint presentation than a piece of conventional fiction. It’s raw, ribald, gritty;(…)
This photo sent by a friend wandering through a Munich bookshop just the other day, my book about young friendship between Anne Frank and Hannah Goslar – Memories of Anne Frank, Reflections of a Childhood Friend. It’s mixed in with a general sample of works on that dark time long ago that seems to still(…)
Ira’s father, Eli, is an old surrealist painter. The mother, Vera, an accountant. Their home, a Mediterranean-style landscape… Is it Israel? Greece? Southern California? The reader can’t be sure. Issues of multinationalism rear up as well. Ira returns home after a long absence to offer assistance to these two decrepit people. Because he’s experienced by(…)
