Meg Pokrass writes like a brain looking for a body. Wonderful, dark, unforgiving. — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
Glimpses is dead-on about the high and tight nineties even as it reaches out for the sweet hereafter of the sixties. It longs for… — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
Meg Pokrass writes like a brain looking for a body. Wonderful, dark, unforgiving. — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
“There is a feeling of disbelief that comes over you, that takes over, and you kind of go through the motions. You do what… — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
A computer is a wonderful and friendly machine, because it's always just a little better than you are. You're always a little bit behind,… — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
“I remember loving pencils. I was fond of paper. I loved the small of textbooks. I loved the way the light from a desk… — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
“Like most marriages, ours eventually wore down all the cartilage. We were a hip needing replacement. Bone on bone, grinding, day in and day… — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
“Edward Lasco was on the screened porch of his rented house in a comfortable but not elegant older section of the town where he'd… — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
“But if someone had slowed him down, just slightly interrupted his course, maybe he could have gotten through that one nightmarish moment; maybe he… — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
“She said things and I nodded. I didn't pay attention. She didn't pay attention to me. We floated through our days in that way.” — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
“I lay on the bed and shut my eyes, thinking that nobody really likes marriage, that it's a flawed arrangement, that people get enthusiastic… — Frederick Barthelme Copy Share Image
