She was pushing her shirt up against her skin to dry the perspiration....
Besides, a confessional passage has probably never been written that...
The bus, the bus, what intervened on the bus to prevent me from coming all over...
What we have in the place of collaboration is the shattering loneliness of...– I would read anything Alma Guillermoprieto wrote, but this article in the NYRB is right in her considerable wheelhouse.
As my own spirits declined, along with the pig’s, the spirits of my vile...– this essay by E.B. White on the death of a pig just confirmed my need to own goats.