In His bone-white palace, abuzz all night, Sits George Bush, hedged in by Left and Right. And He thinks of freedom, justice and His Ranch. His dreams, now becoming overwhelming, Send Him down to a secret cubicle delving. A single … Read More
Although I will perhaps be labeled as crude and sensational, I should like to turn the light of psychoanalysis on Mr. M. Margolin, the president of the Undergraduate Student Government.
Tilty Gringot frowns at the fresh face of the morning and draws shut the curtains. He is an ambler and a shuffler, Tilty, and as he walks from the window to the kitchen small flurries of dust obscure his feet … Read More
A week ago, I sat down with famed Princeton creative writing instructor Gabe Hudson. Aside from being loved by his students, he is an Editor-At-Large at McSweeney’s and the author of Dear Mr. President. His work has appeared in The New Yorker, GQ, and The Village Voice, among other national publications.
“Perhaps we must accept that we are simply watchers of beautiful forms. And if we acknowledge that we are observers, bound by our own frailties and limitations, we may be able to rescue the memory of what was, for an instant, exquisite.”
“It’s not the calm before the storm, but the cohabitation of serenity and calamity. It captures the future’s grasp on the present; anxiety is in the very air.”
“Through my chalk drawing, I wanted to engage with the concept of fluidity and a flexible present. What if the priority was not permanence, but the process?”
On the seventieth anniversary of Ataturk’s death I was in the mountains between Van and Diyarbakir with a baby on my lap and her three year old brother stretched out on the seat behind me while their mother tried to sleep, the silk scarf slipping from her hair.