Travel and Leisure ranks this Kate DiCamillo novel as the best book set in Florida. Do you agree?
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Fiction & Poetry
Several years ago, I was given as a gift a remote session with a bibliotherapist at the London headquarters of the School of Life, which offers innovative courses to help people deal with the daily emotional challenges of existence. I have to admit that at first I didn’t really like the idea of being given a reading “prescription.”
On the way home from the office, Brownfield stopped at Publix to pick up some fruit for the kitchen table. He liked having fresh yellow bananas and a few red and green apples in the big bowl he brought back from Sicily as he sipped iced grapefruit juice and read the New York Times. Also, it would be nice to have a cold beer during the baseball game that would be on television that night, so he considered picking up a six-pack of Heineken. But then Eleanor would raise hell about how he drinks too much, which was true, but did she have to be such a bitch about it? He decided it wasn’t worth the fight so he let it go. No beer tonight.
When I was in ballet class as a very young child, my teacher told me the secret to a clean pirouette was to focus my attention on something stable, something unmoving in the background, and to try and keep my eyes on it.
“Do you think it’s possible that you can not mention your wife or refer to her in any way whatsoever for five minutes? A lousy five minutes? I just want five minutes without hearing about her.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” “So you think of her even when you’re not thinking of her?” “I said I’m sorry.” “You didn’t answer me. You think of her when you’re not thinking of her?” “I’m not thinking of her, Julia. I’m thinking how incredibly disastrous, horrible, impossible it would be if we are found out.” “How would that happen, Joseph?” “The night has …
It was cold, dark and early in the morning and the boy was under the bedspread, the big white George Washington bedspread that smelled like his mother, when he first heard whispering out in the hallway of the big old house on Long Island. The boy couldn’t make out the words, but he recognized the whispered voices of his father, brother and sister, and he could tell that whatever was going on, it was not good. This wasn’t a fun kind of whispering, this was more like a keep-Joe-in-the-dark kind of whispering. Another thing was they weren’t pushing him to …