Once they came down only at dark from the canyons. Now they trot out bold in daylight on sunlit pavement. Still, if you move close, they vanish fast into shadows under the freeway, blocks from the ocean. Up beyond the flammable mansions on over- built lots, where they once burrowed safe, gave birth to ravenous young. Now they watch under scaffolding swinging above sliding foundations. Near the homeless tarps, scattered fires.
Imagine that you knew nothing about me, that you had arrived from another planet, perhaps, and had been given my books to read, and you had never heard my name or been told anything about my life or about the attack on The Satanic Verses in 1989. Then, if you read my books in chronological order, I don't believe you would find yourself thinking, Something calamitous happened to this writer's life in 1989.
She could have told me the truth, that the paint was graffiti. Instead, she told me the rocks were a species of monster called bloodsuckers, and that at night they came alive to eat children who were foolish enough to stray outside after dark. I believed her with all my heart. Why wouldn't I? She was my nan!
Many things have changed over the decades, including social norms, beliefs, and practices. In fact, some things that were considered normal back then probably wouldn't be viewed as acceptable now, and older adults from the BuzzFeed Community know all about them. Here are some "old-fashioned" beliefs from the past that would now be seen as "wild": 1. "In the late '70s to early '80s, if a child had an earache, parents would just blow cigarette smoke into their ear. Drinking during pregnancy was normalized, too!" - brandielitchfield
"The stories that are most rewarding are often the ones that really fill you with a cold dread as you begin, because you're inventing something that doesn't lean into a template," the New Yorker staff writer tells Bustle. "It requires a lot more imagination, and I think it's perfectly natural to stop and think 'I could have just done this the easy way. Why didn't I?'"
This autumn, down in tunnels where London's stories flow, TfL is sharing poems as the colder breezes blow. For four short weeks, six voices will accompany your ride, From Hungary, New Zealand, Africa, and far and wide. Sheenagh Pugh brings Days of November, racing to get things done, While Janet Frame reminds us that we strain beneath the sun. Katalin Szlukovényi writes of crowds and modern ties, Pressed close on busy networks where our tangled worlds collide. For history and remembrance, two poems
You wanted more quizzes, and we've delivered! Now you can test your wits every day of the week. Each weekday, your host, Ray Hamel, concocts a challenging set of unique questions on a specific topic. At the end of the quiz, you'll be able to compare your score with that of the average contestant, and Slate Plus members can see how they stack up on our leaderboard. Share your score with friends and compete to see who's the brainiest.
When I was leaving London for Melbourne, my eldest sister-in-law told her kids not to forget the tradition to throw a bowl of water behind me as I stepped out the door. Just a small splash on the ground, a gesture older than borders. La har azaab po aman se, she whispered in Pashto under her breath may all hardship stay away from you. The little ones giggled and waved their goodbyes as they spilled the water, somewhere between shy and amused.
It seemed no more than a curious footnote-a counterfeiter so outlandishly inept that his forged dollar bills were detectable even at a casual glance. Nearly all were emblazoned with a telltale flaw: the name of America's first President was spelled "Wahsington." The scammer, who operated in the New York area from 1938 to 1948, was known to the often exasperated agents of the U.S. Secret Service as No. 880, for the number of his case file.
If you are reading this, your world is in grave danger. Touch nothing. Take no samples. Leave this place immediately. Destroy everything you have brought here, and never return. We have left this message in stone, in every language we have ever known, to stop a horrible threat. Heed these words, even though you do not want to. "What does it say?" "Beats me." "Isn't language supposed to be a big subject for a linguistics specialist?"
I have never been good at saying "no." My default response to invitations, favors, and requests of any kind is "Totally!" "Absolutely!" or the most self-betraying of all, "Can't wait!" I will agree to lunch when I am drowning in deadlines. I will volunteer when I am already exhausted. Then I spend the next week rearranging my life to accommodate a yes I did not mean.
"Her voice is as familiar to me as my own," says Theo Downes-Le Guin, youngest child of hugely influential Portland author Ursula K. Le Guin. "That voice is inside my head while I'm reading." Most aren't so fortunate, even if they feel at home in Le Guin's Earthsea and Hainish universes. Before her death in 2018, Le Guin was unanimously regarded as the leading light of American science fiction.
That meant I had access to the Consolidated Files: 16 million three-by-five slips of paper, known as citations, or "cits"-pronounced sites -with examples of word usage culled for more than a century from newspapers, magazines, academic publications, trade journals, contemporary fiction, advertisements, radio transcripts, television shows, annual reports, government reports, cereal boxes, photo captions, comic strips, seed catalogs, restaurant menus, car manuals, airline tickets, you name it.
When I tell people about the new novel I just finished, the first thing they ask is whether it's sexy. The question is understandable: The book, SenLinYu's Alchemised, is a romance novel adapted from the author's own Harry Potter fan fiction, and both genres are known for featuring sex-leading to the common assumption that their readers are seeking explicit scenes. But Alchemised is not particularly erotic.
But if you talk to people in the publishing industry, you'll also hear a few names that aren't riding high with the bookies, such as Swiss Popliteratur novelist Christian Kracht, whose Eurotrash was longlisted for the International Booker this year. Australian novelist Gerald Murnane has been a perennial bookies' favourite, but if the prize goes to Down Under, some suggest it's more likely to be awarded to Aboriginal writer Alexis Wright instead.
Now you have freely given me leave to love, What will you doe? Shall I your mirth, or passion move, When I begin to wooe; Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too? Each petty beauty can disdain, and I Spight of your hate Without your leave can see, and dye; Dispense a nobler Fate! 'Tis easy to destroy, you may create.
Forget about apples and oranges nothing rhymes with orange anyway. Never mind those plums that William Carlos Williams sneaked from the icebox. The most poetic fruit of all is the blackberry. Not the mushy sugar bombs packed into plastic clamshells at the supermarket. Those are insipid, bland, prosaic. I mean the ragged, spicy volunteers that grow untended at the edge of a meadow or the side of a road. The kind you go out and pick in late summer or early fall. You'd be amazed at how many of those end up in poems.
A few years ago (partly inspired by you), I started composing odes to my favorite drinks and dishes in Colorado. After more than a dozen years working on another project, in which I wrote long-form, navel-gazing essays about being a single father, this seemed like a fun and sustainable way to keep my writing chops in fighting trim while sharing my love for Denver's gems. My goal was to publish one short, impactful, overwrought piece a week.
I just passed a notable anniversary. It's been 40 years since I started writing this column. I had been doing scut work at local radio and television stations, waiting for the big break that looked like it was never going to come, when the Oakland Tribune hired me to be its gossip columnist. Only one hitch: I hated gossip. It's so negative, and it's all about celebrities; and the only thing they're usually famous for is being famous.
Is there any punctuation mark more divisive than the humble semicolon? It has, I'll admit, some strong competition. The use of exclamation marks (particularly by women) makes some people very excitable. The Oxford comma has sparked vigorous debate among friends, family and internet strangers. More recently, ChatGPT's apparent proclivity for the em dash has caused consternation among em-thusiasts, who are terrified they'll be accused of using AI.
In his studio, Sam Winston appears less artist, more linguistic alchemist. He is experimenting with manufacturing inks out of tobacco from Marlboro cigarettes, the juice of Belarusian chokeberries imported in a 100g packet small enough to make it past customs and a strange brew of kohl eyeliner from the Middle East and galena the mineral form of lead sulfide from Wales.
Not long after the novelist Kiran Desai published her second book, The Inheritance of Loss, which won the Booker prize in 2006, she began working on her third. The title, The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny, came to her quickly, and she knew she wanted to write a modern-day romance that wasn't necessarily romantic, one as much concerned with the forces that keep us apart class, race, nationality, family history as those that bind us.
She is a sought-after TV writer (on Succession and Normal People) but Birch's blazing plays are known for their form and fury. Her brutal breakout in 2014, Revolt. She Said. Revolt Again, was written in a 72-hour whirl. She wrote her latest, Romans now on at the Almeida in around 10 days. Of course I didn't write' it in 10 days, she clarifies. I wrote it in eight years.
This is one of my rare memory pieces, in which I mine the past for drama and resonance by way of opening a window onto my own hapless participation in the human condition. That wife is mine, those children are mine, that house was mine. This is fiction, however, and the events have been remodelled to fit the architecture of the story (and, yes, I did make the mad leap from the roof on the impulse of the moment).
The intrigue: The debate on how to say "pecan" is still nutty. According to Merriam Webster "puh-KAWN," "puh-CAN," and "PEE-can" are widely used. And depending on which survey you point to, either "PEE-can" (preferred by Northeasterners) or "puh-KAWN" is the most popular way for Americans to say it. Some people have very strong feelings about their preferred pronunciation.
The sea brought small treasures back to the shore that The Girl scours every day. She finds little things buried in the wet sand, she fills her pockets with them and walks back home. She lays the little treasures around the house. She wanders around, from one room to the other ; one is dark and cold. The AC works but the light doesn't when she flicks the switch.
See them at low tide, scallop shells glittering on a scallop-edged shore, whittled by water into curvy rows the shape of waves that kiss the sand only to erode it. Today I walked that shoreline, humming, Camino Santiago, the road to St. James's tomb, where pilgrims traveled, scallop badges on their capes, and chanted prayers for a miracle to cure disease.
