MODERNISM, MADNESS AND THE AMERICAN DREAM
When I found a stack of poems, in Hungarian, dating from the 1930s I hoped I had a trove that would yield the secrets of Paul Weidlinger’s teenage years. It turns out that most of them are drivel (sort of what you’d expect from a teenage boy) but there is a particularly dark one that […]
My father’s earliest memory is of lying on a red Persian carpet under a brown dining table. He is three years old. He is trying to decipher the symmetrical patterns in the carpet… as if they signified something; something hidden, yet knowable. He tries to explain this to his mother but he lacks the words. […]