Our pulses are quickened by the prospect of a literary catfight, just as the hearts of men beat faster when they approach the scene of a high-stakes sporting event.
There was, above all the others, Nora. Because of our shared history of kidding around, we could make each other crack up across a conference room just by lifting eyebrows at the right moment in a boring business meeting.
Crime fiction suffers from guilt by association with its subject matter; why should you be concerned with murder and mayhem perpetrated by and among a bunch of low-lifes when you could be consuming the passion of Madam Bovary, the lost weekend of preppie Holden Caulfield, or War and Peace?
In August of 1966 a vacationing John Updike responded to a questionnaire he received that posed the question “Are you for, or against, the intervention of the United States in Vietnam?”
by Con ChapmanThere are two types of people—those who “get” poetry, and those who don’t.
She seemed an unlikely candidate to be a writer, and few people in the London suburb where she lived—and which she satirized in her writing—knew her as one.
I dropped in on my state rep and asked him if he could get me on as Massachusetts poet laureate.
It’s Saturday, the day I check in on my fellow rustic poet, old man Frost, who lives down the road less travelled. He’s a cranky old cuss, but you would be too if you’d fallen as far as he has.
by Con ChapmanIn the summer of 2013 I began to make the rounds of literary magazines to remind them of the upcoming centenary of the birth of Delmore Schwartz. Surely the anniversary merited recognition.
by Con ChapmanPhotosynthesis is an important process. I mean it’s extremely important. It’s the source of food for almost all organisms on earth.
by Con ChapmanSunday night in Boston. The city’s winding down at the end of the weekend, or at least some of us—like me—are.
by Con ChapmanIt’s August, time for me to check on the kids to see how they’re doing with their summer reading lists. Things haven’t changed much in our little town since I was a boy.
Dick Cavett asked, "What was overrated about Lillian Hellman?" Mary McCarthy—never one to mince words—replied, “Every word she writes is a lie, including ‘and’ and ‘the.’”
It has been a little more than five years since poet Rachel Wetzsteon committed suicide at the age of 42 following the end of a three-year romance.