I am here to research, among other questions, the poet C.P. Cavafy. The entire enterprise bears an imprint of ridiculousness the poet himself might have appreciated.
Abby was murdered in the morning while Andrew was out of the house, a fact established by forensic examination of the couple’s stomach contents. He came home a few hours later, sat down on the sofa in the sitting room and was killed, never knowing his wife’s body was cooling upstairs on the guest room floor.
To be an expat is to always feel slightly on the fringe of things. It is to perpetually be a little lost, to live with the nagging feeling that your life is happening elsewhere. It is to no longer really belong anywhere; to lose the ability to say, with total assuredness, This is my home.
Whatever they may have expected, what the Ambrose Akinmusire Quartet got was a night onstage before this cloud of witnesses. An otherwise unimaginable crowd in a country in the grip of a rumored war stopping to listen to a black man from Oakland and his band testify while the city burns away its edges.
The countdown to midnight exceeded all expectations. News trucks from Birmingham, Mobile, Pensacola, as well as major outlets like CNN, jockeyed for curb space along West Claiborne Street. Reporters flanked the throng of Lee enthusiasts, requesting interviews.
It’s the small traditions -- from eating red beans and rice on Monday to meeting under a clock outside a department store -- that remind them that some part of this sinking city will endure. Those reminders are sacred, even if they seem trivial to the rest of the world.
Haruki Murakami runs marathons, the great Amy Hempel volunteers at animal shelters, and Flannery O'Connor had her Catholic faith. Me, I toss plastic chips onto green felt.
The girls in The Secret Place are very recognizably obnoxious teenagers — to the extent that I thought they were all idiots, and at one point or another I thought all of them capable of murder.