Emily wants to be friends with your dog.
This is probably (and when I say probably I really mean definitely) my favorite book of all time. Haunting, sparse, beautiful, The Lover chronicles the lifespan of an affair from its tumultuous beginning to its inevitable end. Somehow I always find myself coming back to this book. It is that first love you always remember, never quite get over.
It seems so inadequate to call this just a travel book. Blue Highways is a meditation on loneliness, on America, on the kindness of strangers and the coldness of strangers. It's a book for the broken hearted, a siren's call to the open road and the antidote to that strange disease called restlessness. Quite simply it is beautiful and I cannot even begin to tell you how much I love it.
A beautiful love story about a woman who falls in love with a giant lizard man. Need I say more?
Susan Steinberg is one of THE BEST writers working today. Her first novel (she has three previous story collections that are also excellent) is a haunting and fragmented portrait of a group of teenagers following the death of a local girl. This book is filled with lines I found myself reading over and over. Let the words echo and fill the space around you.
"Every evening in the city is a deep pool of wine Everyone who lives in the city is drunk with it And cannot leave They are surrounded by friends"
"Take care whom you mix with in life, irresponsible one, For if you mix with the wrong people - And you yourself may be one of the wrong people - If you make love to the wrong person. In some old building with its fabric of dirt, As clouds of witchcraft, nitro-glycerine, and cake, Brush by (one autumn night) still green From our green sunsets...and then let hundreds pass, unlit, They will do you ferocious indelible harm! Far beyond anything you can imagine, jazzy sneerin one, And afterards you'll live in no man's land, You'll lose your identity, and never get yourself back, diablotin, It may have happened already, and as you read this... Ah, it has happened already. I remember, in an old building; Clouds which had cut themselves on a sharp winter sunset (With its smoking stove of frosts to keep it cold) went by, bleeding."