Whoever strays out of the long Habsburg corridor in Vienna and slips into the quieter Italian room meets, almost immediately, a child who commands the air like a small vertebra of living stone. On the tall, narrow panel that bears…
The essay that follows—perhaps a touch long for an online piece—is, in truth, a chapter from The Arrow Knows No Master, a book I’ve been quietly shaping since February of last year. It’s composed of individual essays—mostly reflective, occasionally philosophical—on…
The trade was small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. A childhood barter, some scrap of possession given away for something else, though the details are long since swallowed by the tides of memory. I don’t remember what I…
