The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
This is farming country. The neighbors will believe you are crazy if you take a walk just to think and be alone. So carry a shotgun and walk the fence line. Pretend you are hunting and your walking will not arouse suspicion. But don’t forget to load the shotgun. They will know if your gun... Read more »
On my way back from the Tabac two Dutch businessmen stopped to ask which way and how far to the Metro. I tell you it felt fine: I felt Parisian and tried to sound it. Walking to the Crillon, Caroline and I were stopped by a chic couple who asked if they were near the... Read more »
I am a sheep and I like it because the grass I lie down in feels good and the still waters are restful and right there if I’m thirsty and though some valleys are very chilly there is a long rod that prods me so I direct my hooves the right way though today I’m... Read more »
I miss my stepmother. What a thing to say, but it’s true. The prince is so boring: four hours to dress and then the cheering throngs. Again. The page who holds the door is cute enough to eat. Where is he once Mr. Charming kisses my forehead goodnight? Every morning I gaze out a casement... Read more »
This happened before I met your mother: I took Jennie Johanson to a summer dance, and she sent me a letter, a love letter, I guess, even if the word love wasn’t in it. She wrote that she had a good time and didn’t want the night to end. At home, she lay down on... Read more »
Each night after reading three books to my two children— we each picked one—to unwind them into dreamland, I’d turn off the light and sit between their beds in the wide junk shop rocker I’d reupholstered blue, still feeling the close-reading warmth of their bodies beside me, and ask them to talk about the day—we... Read more »