Something I think about more and more is how to convey the most amount of information in the least amount of words; for simplicity, sure, but also for power. The person with the most power always speaks the least, which is what someone with a healthy amount of power once told me, so I trust them, kind of.
Over the weekend I read The Strange Case of Rachel K., a collection of very, very short stories by Rachel Kushner: "The Great Exception," a story about an explorer with a penchant for hyperbole and a woman named Aloha, "Debouchment," a story about an argument in a bar, and then the [...]
It was another muggy summer, the summer I discovered Plath. If I had discovered her legacy later in life, it may have served as a calming revelation, the meat of hindsight. Wonderment not as thorny and beloved.
I discovered Plath through the typical girlhood grapevine: a slumber party. A friend who looked like Stevie Nicks circa Rumors but had suited up in detail-heavy riot girrl gear mentioned Sylvia Plath. She had just finished The Bell Jar. She wanted to know if I had read it. She casually said, like a cowboy flicking a cigarette stub to the side, I think you’d like it.
Over the weekend I read Love Me Back by Merritt Tierce, mostly because several of my friends had e-mailed me this review by Pooja Bhatia with the following line highlighted:
People compare Tierce to Joan Didion, maybe the doyenne of literary realism, and Mary Gaitskill, whose intense short stories have explored sex and debasement.
I mean, sold.