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Sam was like family. He was the angel of my writing life in every word.

Jayne Anne Phillips recalls her friend, the legendary Sam Lawrence.

I was the man in her life. I know I’m different now. Now I’m a bird.

I’ve wavered in confidence, but never on whether I was going to write.

Sometimes I wonder if he—my father—looks back on that moment.

There’s something about traveling by plane. People tell their secrets.

One of the most important human capacities is compassion.

I put my hand on my stomach and had an image of the melting snowman.

Do we hunger after conflict as much as we hunger after justice?

they released themselves so knowingly into the soft wet air

“Is that your banana?” the short cop asked her.

They were such dummkopfs they kicked out the Jews.

I imagined myself magnanimous, but now I see. I have been cruel.

No one in Lagos slouches. Bravado pulsates through the room.

Lean close and kiss each other: dig down as far as down goes.

I made him love me. To feel abandonment—again.

All afternoon it rains on the traffic outside my window. It’s nothing new.

I came to computers while trying to run away from literature.

I’m told that even during war, she took the time to put on lipstick.

“I have a sneaking suspicion that we’re the same person,” she says.

the woman wiped her hands on her apron saying “lord these children”

No matter how hard I played, it was like I was performing inside a vacuum.

Your voice on the phone, a gesundt in dein keppel you blessed my head.

I slide my heart inside a folded sheet of paper and tape down the opening.

Another light is growing out of their shadows. You can hear it.

There was a special kind of power in playing the father of God.

Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.

Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.

The wine was administered to Theo’s lips, and then the rest of us.

There was something that eluded me, that was always outside the frame.