Not every hard moment calls for hope.
​I know, such a happy sentiment. But it's true.
Sometimes, what you need most is permission not to rush through it, not to disguise it, but to let it exist, to let it wear itself out at its own pace.
We live in a world that often demands quick recovery. Grief, disappointment, exhaustion—these are treated like problems to be solved rather than experiences that all have their own runways. But there is a quiet strength in refusing to look away. In recognizing that sadness, defeat, and weariness are not failures of character. They are simply what it means to be human.
This is not a list of poems to cheer you up. Sorry.
It is a selection of poems to accompany you. Some acknowledge fear; some speak to loss; some trace the quiet exhaustion of just carrying on. None of them demand that you feel differently than you do at this moment.
You don’t have to fix yourself.
You don’t have to explain yourself.
You don’t even have to do anything.
These ten poems offer company, not correction. I'm not going to include the whole poems here, but they are all widely available for free, particularly at The Poetry Foundation, the Academy of American Poets, and All Poetry. I invite you to read them slowly, without expectation, and allow whatever you feel to unfold honestly.

The Weight of It All
Some sadness runs too deep to be talked away.
Some defeats can’t be reframed into victories, no matter how hard we try.
There is a particular kind of honesty — and even dignity — in recognizing that despair has a place, too, however uncomfortable it might be.
These poems do not attempt to soothe or reshape sorrow.
They let it stand exactly as it is.

“Aubade” by Philip Larkin
Few poems confront despair as unflinchingly as Larkin’s Aubade. In the early hours of morning, stripped of distractions, he meets his fear of death head-on.
There is no comfort here. No easy spiritualizing. Only the cold fact of mortality, observed with a painful and unsettling clarity.
It is a difficult poem precisely because it tells the truth — and in telling it, it offers a kind of brutal companionship for anyone who feels swallowed by dread.

Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.

“After a Death” by Tomas Tranströmer (translated by Robert Bly)
Grief can hollow out the world in ways that no one else can see. Tranströmer captures the eeriness of life after loss — the strange quiet that falls, the way everything continues, and yet nothing feels the same.
There is no dramatic outcry here. Only the heavy, bewildering stillness that often follows grief, when you find yourself walking through the same rooms, speaking the same words, but somehow existing inside a different life.

The empty days roll past --
a gray band of mackerel clouds.

“Facing It” by Yusef Komunyakaa
At the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Komunyakaa stands before the names of the dead and confronts the survivor’s guilt that time cannot erase.
The poem blurs the line between memory and present moment, grief and anger, survival and defeat.
Komunyakaa does not find closure; he does not heal in the ways the world might expect him to. Instead, he allows the wound to remain visible — a necessary and painful part of living honestly with the past.

I’m stone. I’m flesh.

Small Losses, Deep Cuts
Not all sorrow arrives with great, crashing spectacle.
Some of the deepest griefs come quietly — through small daily losses, minor disappearances, the slow erosion of days.
These poems turn their attention to the subtler devastations.
They remind us that what seems ordinary — the passing of time, the misplacing of small things, the gradual changes in a life — carries its own kind of heartbreak.

“One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop
Bishop’s voice remains composed, almost playful at first, as she catalogues minor losses: keys, houses, cities. But beneath her steady tone, something shudders.
The poem builds slowly toward its true subject: the grief that comes not from losing things, but from losing people.
By the end, the façade of control has cracked, and the speaker’s desperate effort to master loss feels all too familiar.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

“Otherwise” by Jane Kenyon
Kenyon’s poem walks through an ordinary day — waking up, walking the dog, eating a meal — all with the lingering awareness that any of it could vanish.
The repetition of “otherwise” underscores the fragility of each moment. Nothing tragic has happened yet. And yet the speaker carries the heavy knowledge that loss is always near.

It might have been otherwise.

“Spring and Fall” by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Addressing a young child weeping over falling leaves, Hopkins tenderly but honestly tells her: what you are really mourning, even if you don’t know it yet, is yourself — your own future losses, your own mortality.
The poem is short, musical, and devastating. It reminds us that the sorrow we feel over small things often carries a deeper recognition: that we are all bound to change, to age, to vanish.

It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Carrying the Broken World
There comes a point when sorrow becomes part of the landscape.
You wake up, carry it with you, move through the world anyway.
The brokenness doesn’t mend cleanly, and it doesn’t always need to.
Sometimes, surviving means walking forward while carrying the ruins with you.
These poems speak to that burden — not pretending the world is whole, but choosing, somehow, to remain inside it.

“The Weary Blues” by Langston Hughes
In a tired voice that matches the slow sway of blues music, Hughes captures a profound emotional fatigue.
The man at the center of the poem sings not to escape his weariness but to voice it, to stay alive within it.
There is no tidy redemption. Only the simple, stubborn act of giving sadness a rhythm, a voice, and a life.

He did a lazy sway. . . .
He did a lazy sway.

“Try to Praise the Mutilated World”
by Adam Zagajewski (translated by Clare Cavanagh)
Zagajewski’s poem acknowledges both devastation and tenderness, side by side.
He does not deny that the world is mutilated. He asks you to try to praise it anyway — not because it is untouched by sorrow, but because it contains sorrow and still, somehow, endures beauty.
It is not a naive poem. It is a hard-won recognition that brokenness and grace often live in the same breath.

Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost.

Finding Kindness in the Ruins
After sorrow, after defeat, something quieter sometimes begins to grow — not triumph, not ecstasy, but a tenderness born from having moved with the pain.
True kindness does not float above suffering. It grows from being hollowed out, from seeing the world’s brokenness without turning away.
These poems offer glimpses of that difficult, hard-earned kindness — not as a reward for suffering, but as something that suffering itself makes possible.

“Kindness” by Naomi Shihab Nye
Nye’s poem insists that before you can truly know kindness, you must first know deep loss — the kind of loss that strips away every false comfort.
Only then does kindness become something more than politeness or sentiment. It becomes a form of salvation, rooted not in fixing sorrow but in recognizing it in others, and meeting it without fear.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

“Let It Enfold You” by Charles Bukowski
Bukowski’s voice is rough, almost defiant, but underneath his coarse language lies something surprisingly tender.
He does not preach recovery or transformation (he would never do anything as overtly sentimental as that). Instead, he urges you simply to let life — even in its brutality — wash over you.
It’s not a call to optimism. It’s an admission that endurance itself, unpolished and unglamorous, is the point.

You must let it happen to you.

Kindness, when it appears, is not a cure for sorrow — it is the fragile, stubborn proof that even in the ruins, something in us still reaches toward others.

Sadness, defeat, grief — none of these are permanent states. But they are real states, and they deserve their time. If ignored, they can consume you.
Too often, we are urged to hurry past our pain, to disguise it as resilience or reframe it as growth before it has even had the chance to name itself. Be sure about your problems before you take corrective action.
But true healing, when it comes, does not arrive through denial.
It arrives after we have allowed ourselves to feel — after we have sat with our sorrow long enough to know its shape, its voice, its quiet demands.
The poems I’ve shared here are not guides out of sadness.
They are companions through it.
I invite you to choose one, sit with it quietly, and let it meet you where you are.
Not with solutions.
Not with demands.
Just with presence.
You do not have to be better today.
You do not have to be better tomorrow.
You only have to be here, alive in the full complexity of whatever you are feeling.
That is enough.

Every year, on this date, I find myself thinking of Francisco Goya—not just the painter, but the man: the court chronicler, the satirist, the wounded citizen, the exiled skeptic. Goya was born on March 30, 1746, in Fuendetodos, Spain, and if ever there were an artist who contained multitudes (with all due respect to Walt Whitman), it was him. He might have lived in the Age of Enlightenment, but he painted like someone who had seen the end of it.

I confess I have a complicated relationship with Goya. Some days I find him transcendent—audacious, unflinching, prophetic. Other days I feel like he’s dragging me into a cave with no light and no guarantee of a way out. But maybe that’s the mark of the real art: it resists satisfaction. Goya doesn’t flatter the viewer. He demands.

His career is a bildungsroman in oils and etchings—novelistic in its arc and depth. Goya began as a rococo court painter, producing elegant portraits that flatter with just enough wit to remain palatable to patrons. But even in those early works, you can sense something coiled beneath the surface, waiting. By the time we reach The Third of May 1808, the court has all but disappeared, and we are face to face with raw terror, moral clarity, and unrelenting violence. It is, without exaggeration, a painting that redefined the role of art in political conscience. It doesn’t moralize—it witnesses.

​And then, of course, there are Los Caprichos and The Disasters of War—works that read like visual essays, unsparing in their critique of superstition, brutality, and human folly. They hold up a mirror and break it at the same time. These are not paintings to be admired from a polite distance. They are confrontations.

And if that weren’t enough, Goya ends his career not in stately retrospection but in something closer to madness. The Black Paintings, created in isolation during his final years, are unlike anything else in European art. Saturn Devouring His Son is practically an act of exorcism. The quiet horror of Two Old Men Eating Soup is somehow more chilling than the mythological gore. These are not works of a man who has lost his mind—they are works of a man who has seen too much.

What I admire, perhaps more than anything, is that Goya never stopped evolving. He refused to calcify. He changed not because the market demanded it, but because history did—because life did. He painted the world as it was, not as he wished it to be. In that way, he was not only an artist of his time but of ours as well. In every age marked by cruelty, confusion, or decay, Goya returns. He never really leaves.

So today, I raise an ambivalent glass to Goya: the uneasy genius, the reluctant prophet, the reluctant courtier, the fierce satirist. He makes no promises of comfort, but he offers truth—and maybe that’s more valuable anyway.

Happy birthday, Francisco. You make it hard to look. But harder still to look away.

LITERATURE & JAZZ SERIES

In the narrative of jazz evolution, hard bop emerges as a soulful revolt—a muscular, emotive response to the cool detachment preceding it. This genre, flourishing in the 1950s and 1960s, blended the intricate improvisation of bebop with rhythm and blues, gospel, and even Latin influences, creating a sound that was both complex and profoundly accessible. Like the best of tales, hard bop tells of human experience with grit, passion, and a depth of emotion, making it the soundtrack to a life lived in vivid color. It's in this rich, auditory soil that we find the seeds of literary hard bop—works of fiction and poetry that resonate with the same intensity, complexity, and soulfulness characteristic of the music itself.

Drawing parallels between hard bop and literature unveils a shared narrative strength, a rhythmic pulse in prose and verse that speaks to the same deep currents of life's joys, struggles, and triumphs. The following seven literary works echo the spirit of hard bop, each a symphony of words that matches the dynamic, soul-stirring essence of the music. Their narratives swing with a rhythm, intensity, and emotional honesty that bridge the worlds of sonic and written storytelling.

"Go Tell It on the Mountain" by James Baldwin
Baldwin's semi-autobiographical novel weaves together themes of religious fervor, racial injustice, and personal turmoil in a narrative as passionate and improvisational as any hard bop composition. The novel's deep dive into the soul's darkest and brightest corners echoes the genre's intensity and its blend of the spiritual with the painfully earthly.

"Jazz" by Toni Morrison
Morrison's "Jazz," set in Harlem during the jazz age, literally and figuratively dances to the music's evolving rhythms, capturing the era's vibrancy and the music's transformative impact on its characters. The novel's narrative structure—improvisational, layered, and rhythmic—parallels hard bop's musical innovations, making it a literary echo of the genre’s soulful complexity.

"White Teeth" by Zadie Smith
Smith's sprawling, energetic tale of two North London families weaves multiple narratives in a tapestry as vibrant and polyphonic as hard bop itself. The novel's exploration of identity, heritage, and the collisions of culture and history resonates with hard bop's integration of diverse musical influences and its deep engagement with the African American experience.

"The Man with the Golden Arm" by Nelson Algren
Algren’s novel about Frankie Machine, a card dealer and morphine addict struggling to find a clean break in post-war Chicago, pulses with the gritty realism and emotional turbulence that hard bop encapsulates. The narrative's exploration of addiction, redemption, and the struggle against societal constraints harmonizes with the hard bop tradition of blending technical mastery with deep, often raw, emotional expression.

"The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" by Junot Díaz
Díaz's novel, rich with the rhythms of Dominican history and the diasporic experience, pulses with the energy, humor, and tragedy of hard bop. The story of Oscar and his family, told with a blend of sharp wit and lyrical intensity, captures the music's dynamic interplay of light and darkness, improvisation, and narrative depth.

"Native Son" by Richard Wright
Wright's powerful story of Bigger Thomas, set against the backdrop of Chicago's South Side, shares hard bop's exploration of African American experiences and its unflinching confrontation with themes of race, poverty, and the search for identity. The novel's intense narrative and complex character study echo the emotive force and thematic depth of hard bop music.

"A Rage in Harlem" by Chester Himes
Himes' vibrant, fast-paced tale of love, deception, and desperation in 1950s Harlem captures the energy and mood of hard bop jazz. With its intricate plot, richly drawn characters, and the rhythmic pulse of its setting, the novel reflects the genre's ability to tell complex, deeply human stories through a fusion of style and substance.

Final Thoughts: Echoing Through the Pages
These literary works, in their richness and depth, in the soulfulness of their narratives, and in their rhythmic, often improvisational structures, offer a reading experience that echoes the essence of hard bop. Just as hard bop extends the jazz conversation with its distinctive blend of complexity and emotional directness, these novels and stories extend the literary conversation with their dynamic explorations of human experience. In the interplay of notes and words, in the syncopation of sentences and the improvisation of plot, the spirit of hard bop lives on, inviting readers and listeners to find their own rhythm within its timeless beat.

LITERATURE & JAZZ SERIES

In the symphony of artistic expression, free jazz erupts as a radical departure from conventional melody and rhythm, championing improvisation, spontaneity, and the unbridled exploration of sound. This genre, born from the desire to transcend the limitations of traditional jazz forms, mirrors the avant-garde movements in literature, where authors break free from narrative constraints to probe the depths of human consciousness and the boundlessness of linguistic expression. Both free jazz and its literary counterparts invite audiences into realms of unpredictability and innovation, challenging preconceived notions of form and content.

Just as free jazz musicians like Ornette Coleman and Cecil Taylor embraced the unknown, certain literary works revel in the liberation from traditional storytelling, employing nonlinear narratives, stream of consciousness, and experimental language to convey their visions. The following seven literary works echo the spirit of free jazz, each representing a bold experimentation with the possibilities of their medium, resonating with the music’s spontaneity, complexity, and emotional intensity.

"Hopscotch" by Julio Cortázar
Cortázar's novel, with its unique structure allowing readers to "hopscotch" through chapters in a non-sequential order, captures the essence of free jazz's improvisational spirit. The narrative's fluidity and openness to reader participation mirror the genre's rejection of fixed form, making "Hopscotch" a literary embodiment of free jazz's experimental ethos.

"Naked Lunch" by William S. Burroughs
Burroughs’ nonlinear narrative and hallucinatory imagery in "Naked Lunch" reflect free jazz's penchant for dissonance and unpredictability. The novel's fragmented, episodic structure, blending reality with surreal visions, parallels the free-form improvisations and audacious sound explorations characteristic of free jazz.

"Gravity's Rainbow" by Thomas Pynchon
Pynchon’s sprawling, encyclopedic novel defies conventional plot structures, weaving a complex tapestry of characters, themes, and historical references. The book's ambitious scope and fragmented narrative resonate with free jazz's expansive approach to musical composition, where boundaries are dissolved in favor of boundless exploration.

"The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot
Eliot's seminal poem, with its fragmented narrative, shifting voices, and rich intertextuality, shares free jazz's complexity and depth. The poem’s collage of cultural references and linguistic experimentation echoes the genre’s embrace of diverse influences and its challenge to traditional forms.

"Pale Fire" by Vladimir Nabokov
Nabokov’s novel, presented as a 999-line poem with a foreword, commentary, and index, blurs the lines between fiction, poetry, and critical analysis. This innovative structure, inviting readers to piece together the narrative from disjointed fragments, mirrors free jazz's emphasis on individual interpretation and the breaking of formal constraints.

"Ulysses" by James Joyce
Joyce’s masterpiece, renowned for its stream-of-consciousness technique and deep allusiveness, captures the temporal and linguistic improvisations akin to free jazz. The novel’s exploration of a single day in Dublin through a multiplicity of styles and perspectives embodies the genre’s experimental spirit and its challenge to narrative norms.

"The Sound and the Fury" by William Faulkner
Faulkner's novel, with its intricate narrative structure and shifting perspectives, delves into the disintegration of the Compson family in the American South. The use of stream of consciousness, non-linear storytelling, and varied narrative voices resonates with free jazz’s exploratory nature and its departure from conventional harmony and rhythm.

Final Thoughts: Embracing the Chaos
At the confluence of free jazz and experimental literature, we find a shared celebration of the chaotic, the unstructured, and the profoundly human. These literary works, like their musical counterparts, invite us into a space where the usual markers of narrative and melody are deconstructed, challenging us to find coherence in discord and meaning in the abstract. Through their bold reimaginings of form and content, these authors, much like free jazz musicians, remind us that art’s greatest potential lies in its capacity to explore the limits of expression and the depths of the human experience. In this daring symphony of words and sounds, the avant-garde spirit thrives, urging us to listen, read, and think beyond the boundaries of convention.

​“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”

These words, penned by John Keats over two centuries ago, have endured as a testament to the power of beauty to outlast the fleeting nature of time. In our age of rapid consumption, endless scrolling, and relentless productivity, the relevance of Keats has only grown. His work offers a timeless counterbalance to modern chaos, inviting us to slow down, reflect, and reconnect with the profound truths of existence.

What can a Romantic poet who died at the age of 25 teach us in the 21st century? Quite a lot. Keats’s reverence for beauty, his meditations on mortality, and his ability to find transcendence in the mundane make him an essential figure for our moment. If we listen closely, his poetry and philosophy whisper timeless truths that are more necessary than ever.

The Cultivation of Beauty in a Fractured World
Keats believed that beauty is not just an ornament to life but a fundamental truth. In "Ode on a Grecian Urn," he declares, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” This philosophy, which elevates the aesthetic to the level of the eternal, stands in stark contrast to today’s utilitarian view of beauty. In a world of Instagram filters and viral moments, beauty often feels commodified—something to be consumed and discarded, rather than contemplated.

Keats invites us to engage with beauty on a deeper level, to see it not as a surface but as a source of enduring joy. His poems remind us that beauty is not a distraction from life’s hardships but a refuge and a guide. In our fractured world, where division and disconnection reign, Keats offers a radical proposition: let beauty bind us together, let it remind us of our shared humanity.

Mortality and the Value of Time
Few poets understood the fragility of life as deeply as Keats. Having lost his mother and brother to tuberculosis and knowing that he, too, would likely succumb to the disease, he wrote with an acute awareness of mortality. In "When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be," he confronts the brevity of life and the fear of leaving his ambitions unfulfilled:

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain...

Keats’s reflections on death resonate deeply in our era of existential uncertainty. Whether it’s the looming specter of climate change, a global pandemic, or the relentless pressure to make the most of our time, we are constantly reminded of life’s impermanence. Keats doesn’t offer easy comfort, but he does show us how to live fully in the face of our fears. He teaches us that the fleeting nature of time makes each moment more precious, urging us to savor life rather than squander it.

Empathy and the Human Condition
One of Keats’s most profound contributions to literature is his concept of “negative capability”—the ability to live with uncertainty and ambiguity without rushing to conclusions. In a world increasingly defined by polarization and the need for certainty, negative capability feels like a forgotten art.

Keats’s poetry and letters reveal a profound empathy for the human condition. In "Ode to a Nightingale," he juxtaposes his own suffering with the imagined immortality of the nightingale’s song, creating a space where both joy and sorrow coexist:

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down...

In this act of imagination, Keats models a way of being in the world that is open, curious, and deeply compassionate. His work challenges us to embrace the complexities of life rather than retreat into oversimplified narratives.

The Sacred in the Mundane
One of Keats’s greatest gifts was his ability to find the sublime in the everyday. In "To Autumn," often considered his masterpiece, he elevates the simple act of harvesting into a celebration of life’s quiet, cyclical rhythms:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun...

This attention to detail feels especially poignant in a world of constant distraction. Our devices and obligations pull us away from the small, beautiful moments that make life meaningful. Keats reminds us that the sacred is not found in grand gestures but in the overlooked corners of our lives. He teaches us to look again, to find wonder in the rustle of leaves or the slant of autumn light.

The Power of Imagination
For Keats, the imagination was not just a tool for escape but a means of transformation. Through imagination, he transcended the hardships of his life, creating beauty from suffering. This power feels particularly urgent today, as we face global challenges that demand not only resilience but creativity.

Keats shows us that imagination is not a luxury but a necessity. It allows us to see the world not only as it is but as it could be. Whether in art, activism, or daily life, the ability to envision something better is a profoundly Keatsian gift—one that we need now more than ever.

Why We Need Keats Now
In an age of speed, division, and existential uncertainty, John Keats offers a refuge of beauty, empathy, and wonder. His poetry reminds us to slow down, to cherish what is fleeting, and to find transcendence in the everyday. He challenges us to live with open hearts and minds, to embrace ambiguity, and to imagine a better world.

Keats’s voice, though silenced by death, continues to sing. It invites us to rediscover what it means to be fully human, to be alive to the beauty and fragility of life. As he wrote in "Ode to a Nightingale" ...

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird.

Neither, it seems, was his legacy.

Perhaps, in reading Keats, we can learn to live a little more like him—with courage, with wonder, and with a heart attuned to the eternal song of beauty.

Allan W. Eckert occupies an interesting place in American literature as a historical novelist, naturalist, and storyteller. His works, blending historical narrative with rich, descriptive prose, have earned both admiration and criticism. While not without flaws, Eckert’s literary contributions remain essential for their immersive storytelling, historical depth, and environmental insight. In a time when revisiting and reassessing historical narratives is crucial, Eckert’s works offer much to consider.

Eckert’s signature style transforms history into gripping narratives. His The Frontiersmen, A Sorrow in Our Heart, and That Dark and Bloody River masterfully interweave historical fact with narrative tension, breathing life into figures like Simon Kenton and Tecumseh. By presenting historical events as lived experiences, he immerses readers in the American frontier’s tumultuous past.

In today’s world, where historical narratives are frequently revisited and reevaluated--all too often with bad intentions--Eckert’s approach to “living history” feels remarkably relevant. His ability to humanize historical figures while illustrating complex events offers a vivid entry point into America’s formative struggles.

Beyond historical fiction, Eckert’s passion for nature shines in works like Wildlife in America and The Silent Sky. He transforms the natural world into a dynamic, character-rich backdrop where humans struggle for survival or seek meaning. His works often emphasize humanity’s interconnectedness with the environment.

This perspective is especially resonant today as environmental crises dominate global discourse. Eckert’s deeply felt ecological awareness inspires readers to see nature not as a passive setting but as an active, vital force deserving of respect and stewardship.

Critics have pointed out historical inaccuracies, outdated perspectives, and an occasionally romanticized view of the past in Eckert’s works. These criticisms shouldn’t be ignored but rather contextualized within the broader purpose of his writing.

Reading Eckert critically allows modern audiences to appreciate the narrative craft while questioning the historical framing. His works encourage a dialogue between past and present, challenging readers to reconcile historical mythmaking with modern historical understanding.

Themes of survival, identity, and humanity’s relationship with the natural world permeate Eckert’s books. These motifs resonate in today’s world, where issues of cultural resilience, environmental conservation, and historical memory feel more urgent than ever.

His stories remind us that history is more than dates and events—it’s about people navigating hardship, confronting change, and shaping the world through action and resilience. These timeless struggles connect Eckert’s works with contemporary concerns in a meaningful way.

While Eckert’s oeuvre is a product of his time, they still offer powerful insights into history, nature, and human endurance. His blend of storytelling and historical interpretation invites readers to explore the past through a narrative lens that remains engaging and thought-provoking.

In today’s fragmented digital age, Eckert’s sweeping tales remind us of the enduring power of well-crafted stories. Approaching his works with curiosity and a critical eye reveals a literary legacy that continues to inspire and challenge readers, connecting them with America’s storied past and its ever-relevant lessons.

I didn’t love Emily Dickinson at first. In fact, I resisted her entirely. She was assigned reading in my high school English class, introduced with reverent solemnity—“the reclusive genius of American poetry.” I remember sitting at my desk, feeling the weight of that introduction like a door shutting. Her poems seemed strange, fragmented, unfinished. Those slashing dashes—what were they even doing? Why did she capitalize words mid-sentence like she was issuing divine proclamations? “Because I could not stop for Death— / He kindly stopped for me—” It felt stiff, remote, like something preserved behind museum glass.

So I read her the way you check a chore off a list, dutiful but unengaged. I thought she was someone you admired from a distance, like a piece of abstract art you pretend to understand in front of other people. I passed the test but left her behind.

But I learned she doesn’t let you go that easily. Years later, while browsing a used bookstore on a rainy afternoon, I stumbled across an old copy of her collected poems, its spine cracked and pages stained with time. On a whim, I bought it, thinking perhaps I should give her another shot. I was older, ostensibly wiser, so why not?

That night, I opened the book casually—and something happened. I landed on “There’s a certain Slant of light, / Winter Afternoons—” and for the first time while reading her words, something in me stirred. I felt that strange slant of winter light piercing through the curtains, sharp and heavy. Her words shimmered with loneliness and something deeper—acceptance, perhaps, or defiance. The quiet, devastating music of it stunned me. Several college friends on mine, females, practically worshipped her and I was just now getting it. Better late than never.

From that moment, she became my secret poet. Her voice followed me through different seasons of my life—when I felt isolated, when I wrestled with grief, when I was overcome by wonder at something as simple as a bird resting on a bare branch. She had been writing all along about things I hadn’t lived yet.

Emily Dickinson didn’t ask me to understand her on the first reading—or the second, or the third. She waited, patient as eternity, letting me grow into her. And when I was finally ready, she met me with a brilliance I could no longer ignore.

​The Myth of Isolation
Her poetry lives at the intersection of silence and revelation, where the smallest observations explode into cosmic significance. On December 10, her 194th birthday, we celebrate her ability to transform interior worlds into eternal landscapes, proving that stillness is not emptiness but possibility in its most electrifying form.

Dickinson has long been mythologized as the “Belle of Amherst,” a recluse in a white dress, scribbling in solitude. But this view reduces her work to a symbol of confinement rather than an expansive literary cosmos. Dickinson may have lived within the walls of her home, but her poetic mind roamed freely through death, eternity, and nature’s wildest frontiers. The four walls of her room were a launching pad, not a prison. Her life demonstrates that creative power often emerges from profound introspection rather than physical experience.

Few poets have ever made so much from so little. Consider how Dickinson could take something as small as a bee or a drop of dew and amplify its significance until it resonates with metaphysical depth. A line like "A single Screw of Flesh / Is all that pins the Soul" captures vast existential struggles in miniature form. In our world of constant noise and distraction, Dickinson reminds us of the immensity found in quiet observation.

Her poetry thrives in stillness, where existence unfolds with an intensity that rivals epic adventure. In "Because I could not stop for Death," stillness becomes both a companion and an inevitability—a state through which life is viewed with startling clarity. Today, her embrace of stillness seems almost revolutionary in a world obsessed with productivity and speed. Dickinson understood that stillness is not inaction but a form of deep engagement with existence itself.

She wrote in dashes and fragments—her thoughts deliberately left open-ended, inviting the reader into an active partnership with her words. The dash is her trademark of possibility, a refusal to close the door on meaning. "I dwell in Possibility—" she famously wrote, suggesting that poetry itself is an infinite expanse, a place where boundaries dissolve. Her work demands that we stay curious, never accepting the finality of simple answers.

On this 194th anniversary of Emily Dickinson’s birth, let us celebrate not a recluse but a radical—a woman who defied literary conventions, gender expectations, and the limits of her time. Her poems endure because they are electric with tension, truth, and possibility. In her stillness, she mastered the art of explosion—offering us poetry that continues to detonate in the minds of readers nearly two centuries later.

Dickinson understood that poetry is an act of defiance against finality, a confrontation with the unknown. She showed us that stillness is not retreat but the most dynamic state of being—a realm where possibility thrives. As we mark her birthday, let us embrace her legacy by daring to pause, to notice, and to dwell in possibility ourselves.

In a time when modernism often begins and ends with names like James Joyce and Virginia Woolf, Thomas Mann—the Nobel laureate who once defined intellectual and literary achievement for many—has faded quite a bit. Some might think that's OK. I am not one of those people. His influence continues to ripple through contemporary literature, shaping how we think about themes of morality, identity, and the human condition.

In my latest essay, "Thomas Mann’s Quiet Shadow: The Enduring Influence of a Forgotten Giant on Modern Literature," I explore Mann’s lasting impact, tracing his themes and techniques in the works of today’s most celebrated authors. I also dive into his role as an essayist, particularly his contributions to The Yale Review, which recently mad available a selection of his writings on topics ranging from democracy to German identity. Mann wasn’t just a novelist—he was a cultural critic whose ideas remain strikingly relevant in our age of political and intellectual turbulence. Controversial? You bet. But it's worth feeling a bit uncomfortable at times to intake interesting commentary.

This essay is more than a reflection on Mann’s work; it’s a call for reappraisal. In an era of rapid consumption and surface-level narratives, Mann’s rigorous explorations of the human spirit offer necessary depth and complexity. Whether you’re a fan of The Magic Mountain, a student of modernism, or just curious about the literary forces shaping contemporary fiction, this piece offers fresh insights into why Mann matters now more than ever.
Why Read It?

• If you love exploring the connections between classic and contemporary literature.
• If you’re curious about how themes of moral ambiguity and existentialism continue to resonate in modern novels.
• If you want to learn more about Mann’s contributions as an essayist and why his voice is so relevant today.

Where to Read It

• I invite you to check out the full essay on my Substack page. Dive into Mann’s legacy and join me in rediscovering a literary giant whose shadow continues to shape the stories we tell.

Let me know what you think! Are you a fan of Thomas Mann? What’s your favorite work of his? Or, if you’re new to Mann, what about his influence intrigues you most? Let’s start a conversation about a writer who deserves his moment back in the spotlight.

I recently walked into a bookstore, an experience that always fills me with a mix of nostalgia and anticipation. The science fiction/fantasy section, always one of my favorite haunts, glimmered with bright, colorful covers. There were swords aplenty, dragons coiled in menacing poses, and heroines staring defiantly into a storm—or perhaps their own destiny. Yet as I combed through the shelves, my heart sank. It wasn’t just that I’d seen these tropes before (I had, many times); it was the overwhelming sameness of it all. I’d come looking for something akin to Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke or the intricacy of Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea. Instead, I found an ocean of YA pastels, all flashing similar neon signposts of first love, chosen ones, and simplistic world-building. The variety of narrative voices and literary ambition that had once defined the genre seemed absent.

This anecdotal encounter is not unique. It speaks to a larger trend in contemporary fantasy: the dominance of young adult (YA) fiction in shaping the market. While there’s no denying that YA fiction has inspired millions of young readers and brought a remarkable diversity of voices to the genre, its ascendancy has reshaped the field in ways that make it increasingly difficult for other kinds of fantasy to flourish. In focusing so heavily on YA, publishers, authors, and readers risk flattening a genre that has always thrived on its complexity and depth.

Let’s begin with a note of fairness: YA fantasy has done wonders for the publishing world. Series like J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter, Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games, and Leigh Bardugo’s Shadow and Bone have brought fantasy into the mainstream like never before. They’ve cultivated a generation of readers who are now voracious consumers of books, many of whom might not have picked up a novel otherwise. The accessibility of YA fantasy—its fast-paced narratives, relatable characters, and themes of self-discovery—creates a perfect entry point for younger audiences. This is a good thing.

Moreover, YA fantasy has introduced much-needed diversity into the genre. Authors like Tomi Adeyemi (Children of Blood and Bone) and Rebecca Roanhorse (Trail of Lightning) have brought fresh perspectives that challenge the Eurocentric dominance of traditional fantasy. These are remarkable accomplishments that deserve celebration.

But therein lies the rub: the immense success of YA fantasy has come at a cost. Publishers, ever attuned to market trends, now heavily prioritize YA over other subgenres. The gravitational pull of YA’s commercial viability has transformed it into the de facto template for fantasy writing, leaving less room for experimental, ambitious, or literary works.

The consequences of this shift are subtle but significant. For one, the tropes and structures that work well in YA fantasy—straightforward world-building, coming-of-age arcs, and love triangles—often feel out of place in more complex narratives. These elements work wonderfully for younger readers because they simplify the complexities of the world into digestible, emotionally resonant stories. But when they dominate the landscape, they risk reducing fantasy to a predictable formula.

Consider the difference between a work like Patrick Rothfuss’s The Name of the Wind, which balances lush prose with a sophisticated, slow-burn narrative, and a typical YA fantasy novel. Rothfuss’s work demands patience; its emotional resonance grows not from a simple romance but from the aching intricacies of Kvothe’s life, where triumphs are hard-won and failures are devastating. Such nuance is rare in YA fantasy, where the need for immediate stakes and resolution often overrides deeper exploration.

Similarly, compare the literary ambition of Gene Wolfe’s The Book of the New Sun to many of today’s bestsellers. Wolfe’s work is dense, erudite, and layered with philosophical questions. It doesn’t spoon-feed its readers; it requires effort, a willingness to wrestle with ambiguity. Yet works like Wolfe’s are increasingly rare because they do not fit the mold of what the market believes fantasy should be: accessible, fast-paced, and aimed at a wide demographic.
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This is not to say that all YA fantasy lacks depth or ambition. Writers like Laini Taylor (Strange the Dreamer) and Philip Pullman (His Dark Materials) prove that YA can achieve literary heights. However, their successes are the exceptions rather than the rule, and even their works often get marketed as “crossover” because they appeal to older readers as much as younger ones. The problem lies in the overwhelming prioritization of YA at the expense of everything else.

One of the great strengths of fantasy is its ability to grow with its readers. The joy of discovering Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings as a teenager is only deepened when revisiting it as an adult, discovering new layers of meaning. Yet today’s market often encourages readers to stay within the confines of YA, cycling endlessly through variations on the same themes and archetypes.

This is where humility and wit come into play. As readers, we all have a tendency to stick with what feels comfortable. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying YA fantasy well into adulthood—good writing is good writing, no matter the target demographic. But if we want fantasy to thrive as a genre, we need to encourage readers to explore beyond those constraints. We need publishers to take risks on ambitious projects that defy easy categorization. We need writers to feel confident in crafting stories that challenge their readers instead of catering solely to their expectations.

Focusing on YA is not ruining contemporary fantasy in and of itself, but it is reshaping the genre in ways that risk its long-term vitality. The magic of fantasy lies in its ability to transport us to other worlds while reflecting on the complexities of our own. This magic thrives on diversity—not just in terms of representation but in narrative style, ambition, and scope.

Let’s celebrate what YA fantasy has achieved while also making space for works that demand more of us. Let’s encourage young readers to graduate to the richness of Clarke, Le Guin, and Wolfe. And let’s not be afraid to challenge the market’s love affair with accessibility, remembering that some of the best stories take time to find their audience. After all, the most enduring magic is often the most elusive.

LITERATURE & JAZZ SERIES

Swing, with its lively rhythms and big band orchestrations, evokes an era of dance halls, speakeasies, and radio broadcasts that brought the country together with a shared soundtrack. The swing/big band jazz era, defined by its upbeat tempo and structured improvisations, mirrored a nation's resilience and vibrancy amid the Great Depression and World War II. Literature that pairs well with this music captures the essence of these times—stories of struggle, joy, and the human condition, all told with a rhythm that makes the heart beat faster. These narratives, like their musical counterparts, are grand in scope yet intimate in detail, offering sweeping tales of life's highs and lows, all while keeping readers and listeners tapping their feet.

To find the literary equivalent of a Benny Goodman or Duke Ellington tune is to search for works that embody the spirit of an era—novels and stories that resonate with the energy, optimism, and the collective pulse of a society in motion. The following seven literary works capture this essence, each in its unique way, echoing the big band's blend of individual virtuosity and ensemble coherence, creating a harmonious narrative that swings from page to stage.

"The Grapes of Wrath" by John Steinbeck
Steinbeck's epic portrayal of the Dust Bowl migration captures the resilience and communal spirit of an era. The Joad family’s journey, set against a backdrop of economic hardship and social injustice, parallels the uplift and unity swing music offered to a nation in need of hope. Steinbeck's narrative swings with the highs and lows of the human spirit, making it a literary companion to the era's soundtrack.

"The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay" by Michael Chabon
Chabon’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel captures the golden age of comic books against the backdrop of World War II. The story's blend of historical detail, adventure, and the artistry of its protagonists resonates with the swing era's blend of escapism and innovation, mirroring the big band's orchestral coherence and individual creativity.

"Rules of Civility" by Amor Towles
Set in New York City in the late 1930s, Towles’s novel captures the glitter and grit of a bygone era through the eyes of a young woman navigating the social scene of the upper echelons. The novel’s sharp wit, atmospheric detail, and jazz-infused ambiance evoke the elegance and energy of the swing era.

"Atonement" by Ian McEwan
McEwan’s novel, spanning several decades, begins in the years leading up to World War II, capturing the tension and transformation of the era. The narrative’s emotional intensity, moral complexity, and exploration of the consequences of actions resonate with the depth and dynamism of swing music.

"The Night Circus" by Erin Morgenstern
Morgenstern’s enchanting work about a magical competition between two young illusionists is set against the backdrop of an extraordinary circus that only appears at night. The book’s atmospheric detail, rich imagery, and intricate plot create a sense of wonder and spectacle that mirrors the grandiose and immersive experience of swing music.

"Water for Elephants" by Sara Gruen
Set in the 1930s, Gruen’s novel explores the lives of circus performers during the Great Depression. The story’s exploration of love, memory, and survival against the odds resonates with the swing era’s themes of escapism and resilience, capturing the heartbeat of a bygone era.

"Half-Blood Blues" by Esi Edugyan
Edugyan’s novel tells the story of a group of jazz musicians in World War II Europe, focusing on the disappearance of a talented trumpeter. The narrative’s exploration of art, identity, and friendship against the backdrop of a continent in turmoil mirrors the complexity and vibrancy of swing music, highlighting the genre’s capacity to transcend boundaries.

Final Thoughts: Syncopating Stories with Swing
The novels and stories that resonate with the spirit of swing/big band jazz capture more than just a musical genre; they evoke an era's heart and soul. These works, much like the music that inspires them, remind us of the power of collective resilience and individual expression. In their pages, we find the syncopated rhythms of life—its struggles, joys, and the enduring human capacity to find harmony amid chaos. Swing, in both music and literature, offers a timeless reminder of art's ability to uplift, unite, and inspire, proving that even in the darkest times, there's always a reason to dance.