Radical Empathy
Autor Robin Rommen Limba Engleză Paperback – 15 sep 2024
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781961897182
ISBN-10: 1961897180
Pagini: 192
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 15 mm
Greutate: 0.27 kg
Editura: FOUR WAY BOOKS
Colecția Four Way Books
ISBN-10: 1961897180
Pagini: 192
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 15 mm
Greutate: 0.27 kg
Editura: FOUR WAY BOOKS
Colecția Four Way Books
Recenzii
The stories in Radical Empathy throb and thrum with the heartbeat of life as it is lived at its truest, most deeply moving level. Romm's prose is so exquisite it induces goosebumps. Absolutely haunting.
—Eileen Pollack
What terrific stories these are. I kept admiring—in every single one—the rare, sheer power of imagination that takes the familiar and half-known to the rugged territory of the dazzling. I learned from these.
—Joan Silber
The ten stories—all marvels—in Robin Romm's Radical Empathy establish once and for all that she's a master of the short story. In switchblade-wicked prose, Romm conjures the realities of love, marriage, parenthood, and work so vividly that they bust the bounds of what passes for safely "normal." A beautiful, brilliant, devastating collection.
—Ben Fountain
—Eileen Pollack
What terrific stories these are. I kept admiring—in every single one—the rare, sheer power of imagination that takes the familiar and half-known to the rugged territory of the dazzling. I learned from these.
—Joan Silber
The ten stories—all marvels—in Robin Romm's Radical Empathy establish once and for all that she's a master of the short story. In switchblade-wicked prose, Romm conjures the realities of love, marriage, parenthood, and work so vividly that they bust the bounds of what passes for safely "normal." A beautiful, brilliant, devastating collection.
—Ben Fountain
Notă biografică
Robin Romm is the author of two short story collections, The Mother Garden, and Radical Empathy; a chapbook of stories, The Tilt; as well as a memoir, The Mercy Papers (a New York Times Notable Book). She also compiled and edited the essay collection, Double Bind: Women on Ambition. She’s been awarded an O’Henry Prize in short fiction, and was a finalist for the Pen USA prize for her first collection. Her journalism and nonfiction writing have appeared in The Atlantic, The New York Times, Wired, O Magazine, Parents, and Slate. She lives in Portland, Oregon, with her partner, the writer Don Waters, and their two spitfire daughters.
Extras
from Marital Problems
I can only tell you what’s going on in the marriages of other people; I’m not sure what’s going on in my own. It’s Saturday, and our “morning alone time” has come to a close. We spent it all out here, looking for the binocular case. Maybe my marriage is like a beautiful weather vane on a regal barn, its edges soft, its tin turning turquoise and black. It used to spin beautifully, but the center’s grown rusty. Maybe that’s a dumb metaphor. That metaphor requires me to extend it, to say that these alone hours are the WD-40 we need. Maybe we’re less weather vane and more tomato plant and this whole thing is fertilizer, or maybe we’re just aging and sometimes I notice that my eyes are more revealed, the skin around them thin like that of a toma- tillo. A hardness comes through places that used to be supple, and when Victor reaches for me in bed, it only feels like habit, the way we reach for our toothbrushes, and because I’m not a toothbrush, I turn away. I want to circumvent this fate, though I don’t have the body for bustiers or the energy for finding politically acceptable, palatable, not completely obnoxious porn.
I can only tell you what’s going on in the marriages of other people; I’m not sure what’s going on in my own. It’s Saturday, and our “morning alone time” has come to a close. We spent it all out here, looking for the binocular case. Maybe my marriage is like a beautiful weather vane on a regal barn, its edges soft, its tin turning turquoise and black. It used to spin beautifully, but the center’s grown rusty. Maybe that’s a dumb metaphor. That metaphor requires me to extend it, to say that these alone hours are the WD-40 we need. Maybe we’re less weather vane and more tomato plant and this whole thing is fertilizer, or maybe we’re just aging and sometimes I notice that my eyes are more revealed, the skin around them thin like that of a toma- tillo. A hardness comes through places that used to be supple, and when Victor reaches for me in bed, it only feels like habit, the way we reach for our toothbrushes, and because I’m not a toothbrush, I turn away. I want to circumvent this fate, though I don’t have the body for bustiers or the energy for finding politically acceptable, palatable, not completely obnoxious porn.