The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
when Whitman wrote, “I sing the body electric” I know what he meant I know what he wanted: to be completely alive every moment in spite of the inevitable. we can’t cheat death but we can make it work so hard that when it does take us it will have known a victory just as... Read more »
They know so much more now about the heart we are told but the world still seems to come one at a time one day one year one season and here it is spring once more with its birds nesting in the holes in the walls its morning finding the first time its light pretending... Read more »
The children have gone to bed. We are so tired we could fold ourselves neatly behind our eyes and sleep mid-word, sleep standing warm among the creatures in the barn, lean together and sleep, forgetting each other completely in the velvet, the forgiveness of that sleep. Then the one small cry: one strike of the... Read more »
Every two years he traded them in (“As soon as the ashtrays get full,” he said with good humor); always a sedate four-door sedan, always a Buick, always dark as the inside of a tomb. Then one spring Grandfather took off to trade, returned, parked proudly in the driveway. “Shave-and-a-haircut, two bits!” blared the horn.... Read more »
the only things I remember about New York City in the summer are the fire escapes and how the people go out on the fire escapes in the evening when the sun is setting on the other side of the buildings and some stretch out and sleep there while others sit quietly where it’s cool.... Read more »
He was a big man, says the size of his shoes on a pile of broken dishes by the house; a tall man too, says the length of the bed in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man, says the Bible with a broken back on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;... Read more »