My eclectic tastes in reading material are autobiographical. I am what I read, product of a mixed diet, mindfully imbalanced. My posts won’t be literary judgments so much as reflections on self and previous readings and whether there might be sustenance anew.             Burning Boy caught my attention because when an author of modernist cred […]

A literature of writers’ habitats would fill an entire library. Rooms of their own, cabins in the wilderness, backyard sheds, or the basement in John Cheever’s high-rise in Manhattan circa 1950, where he’d dress in suit and tie and descend the elevator in league with gray-flannel men, bound for conformist offices, as John rode all