The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
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 »
It has its attractions, chiefly visual: all those shapes and lines, hunks of color and light (the way the gold light falls across the lawn in early summer, the iridescent blue floating on the lake at sunset), and being alive seems to be a necessity if you want to sit in the sun or rub... Read more »
Only 16, when he came from Italy alone, moved into the Riverside neighborhood full of Italians from Cilento—all of whom spoke the same dialect, so it was as though they had transported those mountain villages to Paterson. At first, America was terrifying, English, a language they could not master, but my father was a young... Read more »