The waiting room was filled with the kinds of people one sees in my town: an African-American mother on her iPad, an Asian-American father scrolling on his phone, a white mother finishing some work on her laptop, a grandfatherly man wearing a yarmulke reading a book. I was sitting with my kindergarten son while the…

My Frankenstein is first and foremost a novel. A custard-colored Pound Classic published by Penguin UK, to be exact. Though I’ve taught from several editions, as the novel turns two hundred it’s to that tiny, flimsy volume with which I first made contact that my thoughts turn. My wife and I were in Oxford, England,…

Ross told the kids to stare at the splotchy red and blue picture and wait. A dozen elementary-school students tried to sit still long enough to just look. The image could have been a representation of Claude Monet’s last sight of his breakfast nook. Color without definition, intensity without concreteness, depth without distance. For some…

Dear Dr. E, My, but you’re a clever one, aren’t you? You sit there looking so kind and compassionate, smiling and nodding, affirming and encouraging us, and so on, but I’m onto your little game. I’m a clever one, myself. Therapy, I know, is not really about feeling heard and receiving good relationship advice. It’s…

The moment is freeze-framed in my mind: My eldest, Milo, red-faced with anger, his eyes hard but wild, a look I know means he feels both out of control and desperate to re-exert it. The yellow light of the floor lamps casts dark shadows over the couch and his face. Shoot it in black and…

There on my bookcase was a row of nine matching hardbacks. On their spines, a woodcut of an angular man with a pipe and smoking jacket, each volume with its own elaborate Victorian wallpaper-inspired paisley or floral design. I’d found them years ago at a used bookstore: $9.00 for the full Book-of-the-Month Club edition of…

Once, in high school, a guy in the trombone section brought a Playboy to band practice and passed it around the horns section. I was on tympani and could see over their shoulders the airbrushed bodies, the unnatural poses, the phony backdrops. Even as a hormonal adolescent I could see the images were crass, gaudy…

  One year ago, I abandoned the nonprofit and academic world to become a freelance copywriter, a man whose goal was to help businesses share their stories with the world. I fancied myself something of an author-consultant, a skilled writer who could chart out the best alignment of speaker, message, and audience. I told people…

Yes even when I don’t believe there is a place in me inaccessible to unbelief a patch of wild grace —Anna Kamieńska If humans are the only intelligent life in the universe, should we feel sad about that? Should we feel bereft, or disappointed? That’s how David Kestenbaum describes his feelings on a recent This…

Five hundred years from now our present political confusions, conflicts, and outrages will become the stuff of high melodrama. It’s hard to imagine that anyone would look back on this period of American history as entertainment, but they’re bound to, I expect. Not Singin’ in the Rain entertainment, but certainly something like Wall Street or…