“Like moss, my family grew on a mountain. In the utmost northwest of Spain, they set down roots so thick that only despair could rip them out.” Lorena Piñeiro writes at Midnight Breakfast about her family and penance. Pair with a piece on the business of nonfiction.
Like Moss
NO MORE
The US Navy will no longer write its internal communiques in all caps. Maybe they got tired of the sense that they were constantly shouting?
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Poetry of Brotherhood
Recommended Reading: The Missouri Review’s new poem of the week, Kai Carlson-Wee’s “Jesse James Days,” which also won its 2013 Editors’ Prize. “If I carried your name to the skateparks and railroad temples of rust, would you come to me, brother.”
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New Michael Robbins Poetry
The latest issue of Poetry magazine features four of Michael Robbins’s first “post-Alien vs. Predator” poems: “Big Country,” “Be Myself,” “The Second Sex,” and “That’s Incredible!” Robbins was also a recent participant in our Year In Reading series.
Tuesday New Release Day: Pynchon, Baker, McNair, Boccaccio
Thomas Pynchon’s new novel, Bleeding Edge, which we covered in several Curiosities, is out this week. Also out: Traveling Sprinkler by Nicholson Baker; Pickett’s Charge by Charles McNair; and a new translation of Boccaccio’s Decameron by UT-Austin professor Wayne Rebhorn. (For more on these and other upcoming titles, check out our Great 2013 Second-half Book Preview.)
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Killing History
Over at the Slate Book Review, Laura Miller gives Bill O’Reilly’s Killing series a fair shake. From Jesus to Reagan, O’Reilly and his cowriter Martin Dugard have killed off five famous historical “Great Men.” Despite claims of some dubious assertions having been made throughout the series, the books themselves have enjoyed tremendous commercial success.
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Harper Lee’s Unsolved Mystery
In 1970, Harper Lee came to a small town to write about a crime that occurred there, a gruesome murder that was staged to look like a car accident.
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Joyce Carol Oates on Mourning and Writer as Persona
In the Atlantic‘s annual fiction supplement, Joyce Carol Oates writes about the loss of her husband of 48 years and the split identity of the well-known writer: “My job at the university is to impersonate ‘Joyce Carol Oates’ […] this quasi-public self […] is scarcely visible to me, as a mirror-reflection, seen up close, is scarcely visible to the viewer.”