The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook. Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication. Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punchline,... Read more »
I have left my wife at the airport, flying out to help our daughter whose baby will not eat. And I am driving on to Kent to hear some poets read tonight. I don’t know what to do with myself when she leaves me like this. An old friend has decided to end our friendship.... Read more »
Most of what happens happens beyond words. The lexicon of lip and fingertip defies translation into common speech. I recognize the musk of your dark hair. It always thrills me, though I can’t describe it. My finger on your thigh does not touch skin— it touches your skin warming to my touch. You are a... Read more »
We start with the classics. Homer. Shakespeare. Chaucer. But he becomes bored and wants to read romances. Stories of people adrift on the tides of their passion. He is afraid he is missing more than sight. That there are continents of emotions he has never explored. As I read, his lips move as if he... Read more »
If the moon happened once, it wouldn’t matter much, would it? One evening’s ticket punched with a round or a crescent. You could like it or not like it, as you chose. It couldn’t alter every time it rose; it couldn’t do those things with scarves it does.
Of my ancestors I know little, and to try tracing them now would be absurd, their surnames reinvented, mangled at every gate. Was there, among their number, a hero? Were there heliographs, a silhouette, daguerreotypes, lost in the wolverine dark as they fled where they were unwanted for where they were unwanted? To me, it... Read more »