Poem by: Naomi Shibab N.Y.E.

By: Naomi Shibab N.Y.E.

“a girl knocked,
wanted to see the Arab.
I said we didn’t have one.
After that, my father told me who he was,
‘Shihab’—’shooting star’—
a good name, borrowed from the sky.
Once I said, ‘When we die, we give it back?’
He said that’s what a true Arab would say.”

Anton Chekhov, A Writer For Grown Ups

By: Richard Ford

Until I began the long and happy passage of reading all of Anton Chekhov’s short stories for the purpose of selecting the twenty for inclusion in The Essential Tales of Chekhov, I had read very little of Chekhov. It seems a terrible thing for a story writer to admit, and doubly worse for one whose own stories have been so thoroughly influenced by Chekhov through my relations with other writers who had been influenced by him directly: Sherwood Anderson. Isaac Babel. Hemingway. Cheever. Welty. Carver...

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Certain things last

From: Sherwood Anderson

For a year now I have been thinking of writing a certain book. “Well, tomorrow I’ll get at it,” I’ve been saying to myself. Every night when I get into bed I think about the book. The people that are to be put between its covers dance before my eyes. I live in the city of Chicago and at night motor trucks go rumbling along the roadway outside my house. Not so very far away there is an elevated railroad and after twelve o’clock at night trains pass at pretty long intervals. Before it began I went to sleep during one of the quieter intervals but now that the idea of writing this book has got into me I lie awake and think...

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Head over knees

By: Eric Schlich*

In seventh grade, on the bus ride home from school, I heard what happened to the Stokleys. How late Friday night the oldest Stokley son, Jared, had driven home from a movie he’d seen with friends and parked the family van in the garage. Jared Stokley was sixteen, he’d just gotten his license. He was a careful driver. Hands on ten and two, mirror checks, all that. His parents trusted him to knock on their bedroom door to let them know he was back, safe and sound...

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Sonet 164

By: Juana Ines de la cruz

This evening, my love, as I with you I was speaking,
When on your face, your feelings I observed,
And when my words I saw could not persuade you
To see whereof it was my heart desired,..

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Sergey Aleksandrovich Yesenin 21-IX-1895 - 27-XII-1925

Sergei Aleksandrovich Yesenin, Sergey Yesenin or Serge Isenin was born on September 21st 1895 or October 3rd 1895. He died by committing suicide, or was bumped off by the government a few months after his 30th birthday, having the week before sent a farewell poem to a friend or former lover, no one knows for certain. He was married six – or eight – times, depending on the source of information.  The attachments he formed with the women in his life never lasted more than a year, after which time he abandoned them.  One of his wives was Isadora Duncan, and another (the last) Sophia Andreyevna Tolstoya was the granddaughter of Leo Tolstoy. He had four children by three different women; the last, whom he never saw, washis sonby the poet Nadezhda Volpin: Alexander Esenin-Volpin,  waslater to become a mathematician of note and a Soviet dissident...

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Darrell Figis, The writer

By: Ray Cavanaugh

Darrell Edmund Figgis was born in Dublin in 1882. His father worked in the tea business and, shortly after young Figgis’ birth, relocated the family to Calcutta, where he established the tea empire A.W. Figgis & Co. When Figgis was ten, the family moved back to Dublin, though the father would often embark on a passage to India...

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About Albert Camus

From: Ray Cavanaugh

November 2013 marks the centennial of the birth of Albert Camus. A native of French Algeria, Camus became an influential wartime journalist before embarking on a creative writing career. He would become a titan of French literature and a leading voice of the existentialist philosophy that dominated the post-WWII intellectual climate in France...

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I love you

From Affio Buss

I think,
But I'm not very sure.
Isn't it a measure,
Of how much we endure?
The pain and the backlash,
All we've pushed aside,
So I could be there for you,
When youwept and cried?...

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