Paul Burston, the creator of the Polari Literary Salon in London, has, through sheer charm, hard work and diligence, transformed the possibilities of what a literary event should be: a space crackling with energy, ideas, excitement, raucousness and just plain ole fun.
But each of us is given a unique thread, a point-of-view, a message to contribute to the story of humankind. Somewhere deep down, we know what it is, but we sell out for one reason or another.
In reality, neither of the two categories of writers necessarily deserve the distinction of being better writers. Different writers is a better word choice.
Two books positively straining at their bindings are in your local bookstore right now; pick them up, and you'll be glad you did.
Alice Munro's writing, like all great writing, teaches us to be human. It engages big questions in small spaces: What does it mean to be regional? What does it mean to be Canadian? What does it mean to be a mother? What does it mean to be betrayed?
Eduardo Lalo's selection as this year's recipient of the prestigious Rómulo Gallegos International Novel Prize is an event of transcendental signific...
My Little Publishing Company plans to single-handedly bring back the prestige of literary prizes.
This summer, I found myself re-reading Alice Walker's The Color Purple, a book that is both wonderful and awful. After finishing, I asked myself, "Why do some books by great authors (or parts of books by great authors) work so well, while others fail?"
Gender distinctions in literature are arbitrary and often ass-backwards. Can women, for example, write "men's fiction"? Why not?
An incredible number of literary heavyweights have been insulted with spots on the Bad Sex shortlist over the past 19 years. Which begs the question: Has sufficient attention been paid to the art of writing sex scenes?
The truth about American poetry is that it is in very bad shape. The professional poetry establishment has taken care to mark serious criticism comin...
"There is powerful literature in all big cultures, but you can't get away from the fact that Europe still is the center of the literary world...not th...
Last night's resplendent Academy Awards ceremony put me in mind of a less opulent affair: the Associated Writing Program's annual conference earlier this month in Washington, D.C.
I think fiction lends itself to messiness rather than the ideal, and plays well with the ironies surrounding what happens versus what should happen.
The novel begins to close itself to the writer who built it out of her private concerns and instincts. She who knows its measurements exactly, who invented its inner workings, begins little by little to forget how it was made.
We live in an age where many authors ponder their own experience over and over in styles that can be impenetrable, but Vargas Llosa looks at the world and writes about it with such wisdom that he doesn't fear being understood.
The Story of My Teeth, on every level, is obsessed with artifice and the slipperiness of identity. Now translated by Christina MacSweeney, in collaboration with Luiselli, the book mimics her own play with authorial identity. In the book, Gustavo Sánchez Sánchez, also known as Highway, claims to be writing a “dental autobiography,” though the question of whose words we’re actually reading later becomes complicated.
by no less than Chinua Achebe, to be a colonialist, ultimately racist piece of writing about Africa and indigenous peoples who are little understood