A few weeks ago, I put out a call for your worst holiday experiences. My friend Brent of Titivil disqualified himself because his entry (below) was longer than I’d specified. He wins anyway. It’s a moving, atmospheric story, and also, he’s the only one who entered. Terrible holiday story? It was Thanksgiving Day two years ago. I was a . . .
“Since I’ve come out of my cancer, I must say I intend to be even more of a pain in the arse.” R.I.P., Harold Pinter.
Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol in six weeks, to pay off his debt. The week it went on sale, in 1843, the book sold 6000 copies.
Francisco Goldman’s smart & vivacious wife Aura died tragically last year. At TEV he recalls her possessive love for Bolaño.
A conversation about literary pilgrimages with my favorite Poe fan last week reminded me that I never told you about my visit to the Charles Dickens Museum in London. The delay is fortuitous, I guess, because really, what better time than now to talk about the house of The Man Who Invented Christmas? Dickens lived at 48 Doughty Street for . . .