When I was eighteen, I jumped from a pier – just for the fun of it. It was twenty meters above a river and the fall itself totalled about two seconds. Were you to ask me why I did it, I’m not sure I could tell you: maybe to sate my restlessness or my angst, Read More…
I’ve read books better written than Jeanine Cummins’ American Dirt. Some were more eloquent, others more compelling, and others more believable. I’ve read immigrant stories less transparently inauthentic and seen pop culture phenomena less unapologetically shallow. But still, American Dirt was a first. I can’t claim to have read anything quite like it. And though Read More…