The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
What is asked of one is not what is asked of another. A sweater takes on the shape of its wearer, a coffee cup sits to the left or the right of the workspace, making its pale Saturn rings of now and before. Lucky the one who rises to sit at a table, day after... Read more »
All this time, the life you were supposed to live has been rising around you like the walls of a house designed with warm harmonious lines. As if you had actually planned it that way. As if you had stacked up bricks at random, and built by mistake a lucky star.
We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the... Read more »
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end, The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend; Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire; Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire. Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind... Read more »
I’ll have dewlaps and a hump and say what all the time in a cross voice: on every one of my bony crony fingers a ring. My lips painted with a slash of bright fuchsia, I’ll drink margaritas by the tumbler full and if my dealer dies before I do, I’ll just have to look... Read more »
I called Michael and he told me he just got home from a wake. “Oh, I am sorry,” I said. “No, no,” he said, “it was the best wake I have ever been to. The funeral home was as warm and as cozy as anyone’s living room. We had the greatest time. My friend looked... Read more »