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My Own Private Garfunkel
Wednesday May 2, 2012
When I was nineteen and beginning to perform as a singer-songwriter, I found out that rock ‘n’ roll was not without its share of interlopers intent on shoehorning themselves into the musical action. Most of them insist they are expert tambourine players, but tend to be more adept at stealing the spotlight. I would have welcomed a tambourine player. Instead, I had Mark, who insisted he could sing....
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The Subjective Correlative
Tuesday May 1, 2012
The American painter Washington Allston wrote of the objective correlative a good seventy years before T.S. Eliot (“mature poets steal”) made it his own. And while I have no aim here to steal from or imitate Eliot (the path of “immature poets”), recently in matters of faith I have found a helpful cousin to his trope—“the subjective correlative.” I’m still not exactly sure how to define it....
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Out of Egypt, Again and Again
Monday April 30, 2012
I / We. Mine / Ours. How wide the expanse between these terms. When my wife told me, a couple of days before my first appointment with the urologist, she would be accompanying me, I said no. I had my reasons. As I lay in bed, half-watching an episode of Seinfeld I had seen countless times before, half-watching her finish her preparations for sleep, I imagined myself at the doctor’s examination room....
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Teaching My Son to Hunt, Part 2
Friday April 27, 2012
Some folks like to use the word “harvest” instead of the word “kill.” But we harvest broccoli and tomatoes and cabbage from our garden. When I take the life of a whitetail that will be butchered and stored in my freezer to feed the family through the winter, I think the only honest way to put it is to say that the animal has been hunted and killed. When you place a rifle in a boy’s hands—show him where on an animal’s body....
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Teaching My Son to Hunt, Part 1
Thursday April 26, 2012
After the brief warmth of days barely above forty and lingering nights well below freezing, the snow that fell last week has become hard and brittle. Crystal upon crystal picks up the December light, reflecting the first hints of pink that within the hour will turn dark purple on the undersides of clouds over the western ridges here in central Pennsylvania. The deer begin to enter the bedding ground around....
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Current Issue
Issue 72
Memoir by Lauren Winner, Poetry by James Harpur, Art by Guy Chase and Adrian Wiszniewski
Good Letters: The Image Blog
