I asked Sartor what this institution of the New York literary scene has meant to him: “Sitting down and listening to people read is like the joy for me.”
Caribbean countries have essentially become a kind of clearinghouse for rich-nation publishers and booksellers; it can rightly be called "donation dumping."
007 was the right hero for the right author. If Bond could defeat SPECTRE and SMERSH, surely he could help a 40-something bloke get back on his feet again?
Most novels sell only a few thousand copies, and at a big house those writers wind up feeling like a failure. It’s much easier for us to have a success.
Although I have read more than last year already, I find myself perplexed by my slowness. Has my attention span shortened from using a phone too often?
What mattered was that I—this well-behaved, compliant young woman—was writing from deeper, darker places, reservoirs of anger I’d always denied were there.
We could so easily get guns. We felt cool playing with them, drinking cheap beer in the desert. How dangerous that this kind of gunplay seems innocent now.
In an era of illiterate racist YouTube comments, to worry about semicolons seeming overly sophisticated would be splitting a hair that no longer exists.
“I sit in chair. I hurt.” The scene is shocking and ordinary, disturbing and workaday. It is one of thousands that occurred in New York alone in the 1970s.
This is not how I thought books were written when I was a young person dreaming of becoming a writer, or when I was a student learning about other writers.