The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
For Jews, the Cossacks are always coming. Therefore I think the sun spot on my arm is melanoma. Therefore I celebrate New Year’s Eve by counting my annual dead. My mother, when she was dying, spoke to her visitors of books and travel, displaying serenity as a form of manners, though I could tell the... Read more »
There was the one who walked into a river with her pockets full of stones and the one who started her car with the garage door closed, determined to drive herself elsewhere. The youngest went into the kitchen and placed her head where she had so often placed chickens or hams. These were the women... Read more »
Our fathers, who lived all their lives on earth— are going now. They have given us all we need, and when we asked, they gave us more. Their names are beautiful to us, holy as the names of stars, as familiar as the roads we traveled, falling asleep on the way from one farm to... Read more »
With what stillness at last you appear in the valley your first sunlight reaching down to touch the tips of a few high leaves that do not stir as though they had not noticed and did not know you at all then the voice of a dove calls from far away in itself to the... Read more »
God would perform miracles in the old days, Father said, but nowadays if he set a bush on fire, like he did for Moses, the fire department would rush to put it out. The newspapers would send our photographers. There’d be an investigation. A reward would be given to help find the arsonist. Some innocent... Read more »
I’m tempted to ask what you see in him. Although you probably see the good that I see I wonder if you realize how much he is my handiwork, or which of the qualities you daydream about in class are the ones that I take pride in, his cordiality, for example, or love of silliness.... Read more »