In a Waiting Room

1. Here I am—the annual physical, these days euphemized as a “well-check,” a ruse of language I like in some happy way, much better than “get on board” for “obey.” Still, in settings like this one, I confess I sometimes find myself thinking of Larkin, almost wanting to make conversation with the Larkin-id I try… More

The Gift

Robert Wrigley’s new essay reflects on Sylvia Plath’s last days: “What was Plath at this point, in late October, 1962? If she were a character in my son’s NBA video game, her every drive on the basketball court would be trailed by flames. She was on fire.” More

His Previous Life as a Lichen

He did not go far, and the journey was long. It seemed his quest was to enact the shadow of a distant ridge, until it was the distant ridge that became somehow the shadow of him. This freed him to swaddle an entire stone, to be a cloak, to gown the gray granite of a… More

Proust

Robert Wrigley By the light of my reading lamp, she regards me, or regards the shape of me where I sit, the shadow I am, she being mostly blind. She’s lying on the couch, and it may be she is uncertain I am even here, for she was asleep when I entered the room and… More