We sit in small rooms. We lean over notebooks whose paper not only is patient but also silent.

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Judith Moore's emotional life

Alone with grammy, death of a classmate, deep love of dog, a desperate writer, Thanksgiving for waifs, direct letter to reader

Unafraid of Virginia Woolf On the morning we met, he lit my cigarette and his, a nonfilter Pall Mall (you could still smoke then, at the library's front desk), with a quivering hand from which ...

Judith Moore: Readers wonder about writers, so I will tell you

One way to explain bliss

You tuck into your overstuffed chair, a book in your hand. Let’s make believe the book is Kerouac’s On the Road (published finally in 1957) and let’s make believe that, , you’ve never before read it.


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