We inherit plots. There are only two or three in the world, five or six at most. We ride them like treadmills.

We inherit plots. There are only two or three in the world, five or six at most. We ride them like treadmills.

It often seems to me that the biggest single issue for a writer is how to stay buoyant enough to go on writing. How not to drown.

That is where homeland is. In that shifting space, kinfolk know one another by secret signs; and wherever kinfolk meet, homeland soil coalesces about their feet in the mysterious way that coral cays, like seabirds pausing in flight, anchor themselves to the Barrier Reef.

There are all kinds of under-represented groups in the literary establishment.

Herschel Grynszpan's life was enigmatic, elusive and tragic. The traces he left on the historical record are just sufficient to tantalize and baffle historians. Harlan Greene has woven from these threads a riveting novel, erotic, haunting, and profoundly moving.

Her days come and go like birds, her dreams like days.