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Whispering Along a Thin Trembling Thread
Most of us are vulnerable to the solipsistic notion that our sufferings and joys are exquisite. My ex-wife once attended a seminar, a Christian women’s retreat, in which the keynote speaker opined about the peace of God. “Most of you have never truly known the peace of God,” the speaker told her audience. “You may think you’ve known the peace of God, but you haven’t.” The speaker had ....
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Motion Pictures
I like movies because other people do the talking and they don’t expect you to say anything clever in reply. Also, something usually happens. I’m suspicious of mass culture, but I’ll say this for the masses—they mostly won’t tolerate two hours of some whiner going on about how exquisitely the world has wounded him. They want a car crash, or for people to fall in love, or better still, for people to fall in love while....
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The Flaws We Bear
Maybe you are in love with a girl. Maybe she is too young for you, or you are the wrong religion, or you have a terminal illness, and so you will grieve her more than would otherwise be the case, which in itself is no small thing. Maybe each time you tell someone about her, his first instinct is to speak back at you the things you already know (because a sensible fissure runs through even your wasted bones)....
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The Thing about Ambergris
I’ve been thinking about Jonah—poor puritanical Jonah—imagining he can put to sea and flee God’s eye, that he can nestle down in that creaky boat’s hold and sleep his foolish baby’s sleep and not wake to the raging storm. Poor Jonah, burdened with the human heart espied by Solzhenitsyn, the heart with a line cut jagged down the center of it, one side welling good and the other seeping evil, and the hell....
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The Art of Disappointment
Years ago I took the wrong cab and got yelled at. An angry-looking little businessman scurried over and rapped his knuckles on the window as I got in. “Hey!” he shouted. “That’s my cab!” He pointed his finger at me. “Did you call for a cab?” I told him I had, and then he asked the driver the name of the person to be picked up, and the driver said “Gerald,” or “Bernard,” or something like that (his name gets less flattering....
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Current Issue
Issue 72
Memoir by Lauren Winner, Poetry by James Harpur, Art by Guy Chase and Adrian Wiszniewski
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