lucia berlin writes well. almost too well. her prose is descriptive, the imagery is fragrant, concrete, but repetitive. is all writing that isn't fantastical eventually autobiographical? or maybe there is no exception.
this book of short stories is like reading Lucia's autobiography, told in bits through many lenses but ultimately it's the same voice, the same rhetoric, the same scene again and again.
a sister dying of cancer, oakland, alcoholism, beautiful dark Mexican men, exotic waters and fragrances, the slow march of time, deep tight human connections that end, always, tragically.
it's too much lucia, too much closeness, by the end you're suffocating in the dismal regret that she claims not to feel, not to have. her prose is loneliness, self-reflection and suicide, played out in characters that are really mirrors of her own life.
will it stick with me? yes but in a hazy constellation of melded autobiographical prose.
some days I remember the lies you told me and i laugh at both of us at me, for wanting so badly to believe you at you, for having t...
A lot of scientific epistemology or historiography focus on the methodology of discovery, the paradigm shifts of humans and the viability an...
outlining, on the ground in blood chalk the structure of that thing that you need or feel that you need in order to feel full.
Sadly, I could not comment on this article via the NYT website because I read it too late. Thank goodness for blogs though! Reading throu...