she looked at me as if a horse had wandered into the hall, and in commanding it with her eyes, she could get it to return to its stable. - Alexander Chee

It was said she mourned her beauty, which people still spoke of as of a vanished champion from another age. She had buried herself alive in public, on

There’s some way of thinking about how the body can be articulate that translates into how you tell stories on the page. I don’t know if it goes the other way. I’d love it if it did. The body is the instrument for the essayist in particular. It’s the instrument by which the events are recorded; it’s the instrument on which the events are replayed. It’s a very complicated, interdimensional relationship we have with our bodies when we’re nonfiction writers.

It's a strange time to teach someone to write stories. But I think it always is. This is just our strange time.