The predicted Snowmaggedon of 2015 never arrived in New Jersey, but that does not matter much when I find myself sprawling face-down on the parking-lot concrete next to my car. I never even saw the black ice. I just screamed and tasted blood in my mouth after I hit the ground. My whole body hurts.
My friend’s husband recently died, so on a foggy February morning, I ask her over for a cup of tea.
“Oh, no, please come to my house instead,” she says, “and you can still see Bach’s portrait before it goes forever to Leipzig.”
March 2, 2015, 7- 9 pm
The Dutch novelist and newspaper columnist, who moved from Amsterdam to the United States in 2012, discusses her adjustment to writing in English and what it has taught her about the immigrant experience. The program will be moderated by Landon Jones, former editor of People and author of “Great Expectations: America and the Baby Boom Generation.”
The predicted Snowmaggedon of 2015 never arrived in Princeton, but that does not matter much to me when I find myself sprawling face-down on the parking-lot concrete next to my car. I never even saw the black ice. I just screamed and tasted blood in my mouth after I hit the ground. My whole body hurts.
“You found me,” the old man in the knitted sweater whispers in a soft, hoarse voice. I wonder about the sweater, since this is one of the hottest days of the year. He looks out from the doorway of his old house beside the canal.
I’ve just rung his doorbell to tell him that his keys are hanging in his lock. A cluster of different keys, crowded on a wrinkled brown leather trunk label. I still remember the hassle when I once left my keys outside in the lock and they vanished.
Utterly confused following the recovery of her deathly ill daughter, she began to write. (And how!) But when Pia de Jong (Lange dagen) came to the US with husband Robbert Dijkgraaf and children, she practically had to start all over again. “I missed the language. The French have a beautiful word for it - dépaysement. I was without a country; disoriented.”
Madame X. In terms of our profiles, I’m told, I look like her. But I’m not so pleased with my profile, so it’s with some trepidation I find myself looking for the famous portrait by John Singer Sargent at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.