The air tingles with prose. Patrons perch atop bar stools, but they aren't drinking. Individuals congregate together as a group, but they aren't talking. Paperbacks adorn a table stained by water rings,
I first read “Slaughterhouse-Five” in 1972, three years after it was published and three years before I published my own first novel. I was twenty-five years old. 1972 was the year of inching slowly toward
"For goodness' sake!" —Shakespeare "Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there, i' the name of
Think “19th-century woman poet” and the image conjured up is other-worldly: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), all in white, slipping away at the sight of strangers, or the equally reclusive Emily Brontë (1818-1848).
It is pleasing to think that if Geoffrey Chaucer were transported to Southwark today, he would not be completely bewildered. Despite all the changes in the 600-odd years since his pilgrims supposedly out
He was the son of a glove-maker who left his provincial medieval market town for the capital where he would become known as the world’s greatest dramatist. It has never been known exactly where William