Here I was, with Miss Marie looking at me, expecting me to say what she wanted me to say, and I knew the Good Lord was looking down on me, too, expecting me to tell the truth. I swanny, I didn't know what to do.

Inside my head, a voice chatters nonstop like a machine gun: Hummina hummina hummina.

His latest novel sheds light on an émigré writer’s woodshedding period.

A worke of rich entayle.