Spring has sprung. Last year’s hummingbird nest has been refashioned for this year’s brood and the tree frogs have set up a mating-frenzy racket in the gullies temporarily soaked by last week’s long-awaited rain. The owls are hooting contentiously in the dark clots of the trees at night. And, of course, the rats are astir—if you follow me on Twitter (I won’t call it X) and Bluesky, you will know that I delivered sleek #385 to the chaparral zone this past week. As for me, I’ve been observing the still-chilly mornings at the beach most days and climbing into the kayak on the odd afternoon while waiting for the ocean to warm enough so that I can recommence swimming and have a chance of surviving. I am still looking for the next novel and hoping that a few more stories will present themselves to go with the three I’ve written since finishing the novel ("No Way Home," due out here next spring and in Germany this fall in translation; Hanser will publish the original under their imprint to coincide with the American publication by Liveright in the U.S.). The latest story is called “The Elgar,” and concerns a young cellist; it was preceded by “Go With the Soft” and “The Nonexistent Child.” I will let you know when and where they will appear.
I just received my contributor’s copy of "A Century of Fiction in The New Yorker, 1925-2025," edited by Deborah Treisman, and am reading my way through it, beginning with stories by E.B. White, John O’Hara and James Thurber (it’s going to take me awhile, since it comes in at 1,119 pages). In case you’re wondering, of the 32 short stories I’ve published in The New Yorker, Deborah has chosen “Chicxulub” for this anthology. At the same time, I am relishing the compulsively readable "Flagrant, Self-Destructive Gestures" by Ted Geltner, a biography of Denis Johnson, one of the most gifted and original writers of my generation, due out later this year from the University of Iowa Press. Plenty of great material to distract me from the self-serving ongoing chaos that has replaced our former democracy. But why weep? Why fret? The seasons change all the same, whether you live in a free country or a fascist autocracy. Feel the sun on your face—or if it’s still snowing where you reside, toss another log on the fire. Enjoy. It's spring.
Ciao for now.