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In today’s arts and culture news: Cormac McCarthy moonlights as a scientist, Bill O’Reilly’s thriller presaged his ouster, and more.
The night Coin Foreman was returned home from his wanderings, the Corinthian Baptist Church of Christ burned to the ground in a five alarm fire. Along Berriman Street the news was flashed from open window to open window by popped out heads and mouths and mouths working into the disaster gossip like fast scissors.
“The short story seems to me the most difficult and disciplining form of prose writing extant.”
Orner writes with a concise acidity, but that’s really more an affect of his narrators than it is any needling about Orner’s prose, which flows smoothly through these tragedies.
I once brought a girl home because I liked her shoes. That was the only thing I noticed about her. I live in a really small apartment. A lot of my clothes end up piled on my mattress or draped over the open door of the microwave.
It was growing dark outside, and the rain against the salon’s big windows looked like ink running down a page. The traffic crawled along the blackened road beyond.
One last stop, he says. And they drive to Westside Lanes. / I grew up bowling. I don’t want to bowl. It was raining. / We’re not going to bowl, the circus carpet dark with gum / beneath them, and he parts the curtains on the best