My broker and I watched the markets drop, ticker crawling across the bottom of the Bloomberg screen, and salvaged what we could, kept Microsoft, sold AXA, unwound
I can remember the way he ripped the pages out of my notebook, wadded them into a dense ball, and said, in a voice free of emotion, “False Image,” as if that was all they were.
Journalists are synthesizing for a popular audience what historians have long known: Free women make their way in the world, availing themselves of new technologies and economic opportunities as they go. Girls—they’re just like us!
This time, as the contraction mounts, Lore does not cry out, but her face is tense and grim. In fighting back her cries of fear she is fighting her body, too, and the nurse, Franckline, can feel the inner muscles clenching against the...
I descended into the underworld again in my dream and there for the umpteenth time stood my father in a plaid button-down shirt and khakis a freshly lit pipe a wreath of smoke
The most common question posed to me by journalists—and my students for that matter—is always some version of, “Is it really still about losing the Civil War?” The “it” is always changing. Substitute segregated proms or voter ID regulations...
I remember this beach thirteen years ago, just after independence. East Timor had become the first new country of the twenty-first century, and Dili was its capital. Broken tiles littered the sand. A rusty sewing machine, car parts, bits of...
