A voice cries out in the wilderness, moaning like a doleful ghost up the hilltop from down the slope. My eyes get blocked by clouds of dust, curtains of earth glinting. Bright, white. Heat. There is no smell here but…
In April of 1925, Thomas Stearns Eliot left his job at a London bank to join Faber and Faber, the publishing house where he would work for the remainder of his career. Three years earlier, the literary expatriate had published…
I was excited to see Boston in the fall — only Boston this fall felt like winter anywhere else: the high 46 degrees, the sky grey and sunless, the people moving quicker than usual to escape the inhospitable outdoors. The…