Letters & Essays
Art & Photography
In 1944, at the age of twenty-two, Jonas Mekas left his small village in Lithuania, then occupied by the Nazis, in the company of his brother Adolfas.
I’m the only child of a single mom, who’s obviously been my best friend from the start. But here’s the thing: after twenty-six years, she recently remarried.
“For eighteen years, Jack Wilson,” she was saying for the third time, “your father took pictures for my family, and we were never dissatisfied. I’m sure if he were back here now—if be weren’t in the hospital—”
On when he writes: “I like to stay up late at night and get drunk and sleep late. The afternoon is the only time I have left. ”
Glen Campbell was the perfect articulator of Portis’s defiantly at-odds small-town characters and their old-fashioned dreams.
The name on the card was Clark: they were to meet in the ten-minute waiting zone just outside departures. But Clark was late and the morning frigid. McRae got back in his car, drove around, parked in the lot, and walked into baggage claim.
Just as there is no single style of lace bonnet in Brittany, but rather many variants from village to village, there is no single Dutch national costume, despite what we might think from looking at the illustrations on cookie tins or the outfits of little Dutch dolls.
All this was years ago, but how could I forgetthe first thing I did when you finally left mewas grow distinctly unlike myself—so distinctly unlikethat when help was offered I took it.