“I think, as a writer, it’s a good idea to challenge yourself and do what you haven’t done before,” she said. “I could have followed the same template and had a career writing detective novels over and over again, but that’s not what I want to do with my life. I’d always avoided writing about sex because it’s really hard to write about well. We have such a lack of good words in commonly spoken, everyday colloquial English to talk about sex.”
There are few transformations in cooking as miraculous as turning an egg into a meringue.
With only some sugar, air and a small amount of effort, a bowl of modest egg whites can become extravagantly glossy and puffed, ready to dress up all manner of swoopy, fancy confections — festooned on cakes, piped into pavlovas and kisses, or swirled onto pies.
Sheila Heti’s new novel, “Pure Colour,” is about a young woman who turns into a leaf. “Unrequited love’s a bore,” Billie Holiday sang. So, it turns out, is photosynthesis.
“Wildcat” was a book I couldn’t set down for long. What was all this tension leading to? That something wasn’t divorce, an affair, tortured regret over giving up your life for a tiny, demanding demon. That something was the realization that you’re content with your life and your choices, even if every day isn’t easy, and that it’s time to excise the people who can’t be happy for you too — and maybe make them suffer, just a little.
I don’t like how the second you don’t die
you’re a survivor—there should be some between
period where you don’t have to be that quite
yet, like how when wild garlic gets torn out