And then, suddenly, at 13, the parents left us to our own devices, and the invitations grew scarce, shriveled like raisins. I was invited to some things — not all, never all — at first. I smuggled abandoned friends, hidden in pockets and backpacks, across gates with me; they smuggled me.
Maybe we believe that those selves are authentic, and maybe that works for some of us! But maybe there is no concrete sense of self to be found, after all. Maybe we’re all the same, and maybe that can be liberating, too.
Can faith be more than struggling to keep things from dying? Maybe, there is nothing in the world that we can separate from death.
It is a fundamental aspect of the human condition, a longing for the past, for a sense of belonging so primordial that it predates language.
In 272 pages and 11 short stories (some shorter than others), Brock Clarke plunges into the depths of the absurd.
Playwright Stephen Karam’s “The Humans,” enters the arena of American classics, unfolding at the confluence of tradition and modernity—all over a warm turkey.
“The White Card” demands as much from its audience as its actors, drawing spectators to see the world recreated on stage as simply that: a recreation of what Rankine calls the “fault line between black and white lives.”
On Feb. 12, Tayari Jones, novelist and Professor at Rutgers University’s MFA program in Newark, cast spells over a crowd squeezed into the Harvard Bookstore.
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Harvard Places Fryer on Administrative Leave, Levies Sanctions
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