Tomorrow is Fathers Day. It’s a younger observance than Mothers Day, and it started in 1910 in Spokane, Washington. And it started because a daughter was determined that fathers would not be forgotten.
Psychiatrist and Pulitzer Prize-winning author Robert Coles died June 4 at age 97. He also taught literature at Harvard and wrote more than 60 books. His Pulitzer Prize work was about race, and he went to New Orleans with a notebook and tape recording to understand how federally mandated school integration had affected the children themselves. Kenneth Woodward at Commonweal has a remembrance of Coles and his writing.
Way back in my junior year of high school, I did a massive research paper for my American Literature class on three Realist writers – Jack London, Edith Wharton, and Willa Cather. I had to read at least two works by each author, and for Cather I chose two of her later works – Death Comes for the Archbishop and Shadows on the Rock (we’d already read My Antonia and O Pioneers in class, and the research paper had to be on unread works). I liked them both, but I knew that critics had disliked Shadows on the Rock; it was apparently too religious. Maria Grace Birzer Papez at The Imaginative Conservative considers the book and writes that the critics at the time missed the point entirely.
I was surprised today - the nice, wonderful kind of surprise. TS Poetry Press, the publisher of my historical novel "Brookhaven," created a trailer for the novel. It is (no bias here, of course) spot on. It describes the novel perfectly and communicates the "feel" that I intended with the novel. You can see it here:
It’s not exactly a confession, but I have the textbook I used for English in my senior year of high school, England in Literature. It’s not the one I actually used, but a copy I found at a used book fair. And I’ve also held on to the texts from my two courses in English Literature in college – the Norton Anthology of English Literature, published in 1962 and revised in 1968. I’d prefer not to think about how many editions have occurred since then (those recent is 2024).
I was on a multi-day business trip to Washington, D.C. I had a free afternoon, so I walked from the hotel to the National Gallery on the Mall. And then, for reason or reasons unknown, I walked across the street to the National Archives. And there it was – the original Declaration of Independence.
Drafted mostly if not entirely by Thomas Jefferson, the Declaration is to America what the Magna Carta is to England. The statement of beliefs. The citation of grievances against an unjust ruler (also an English king, no less). The signatures.
Fanny Howe (1940-2025) was the author of some 13 poetry collections, five novels, and numerous short stories and essays. Her collection Second Childhood: Poems (2014) was a finalist for the National Book Award. Her Selected Poems received the 2001 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize, and she received the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize in 2009.
Shortly before her death in 2025, Howe completed another manuscript, This Poor Book: A Poem. It is and isn’t a poem. It is and isn’t a poetry collection. It is and isn’t a memoir, an autobiography, a poetic essay. It is one of the most unusual works I’ve read.
