Sherman Alexie’s recent story in the New Yorker is worth a read. His writing always manages to contain a sense of rage — at life, at being an Indian, at history, at white people, at other Indians — often using deeply developed sarcasm and humor. He’s not afraid, however, to let his fear show through. Fear of the knowledge that life is often about the struggle to hold one’s rage at bay.
I woke up briefly this morning with the Railway Children’s A Pleasure in my head (this is what happens when you go to the Field Day festival the day before?). And one Sunday morning pleasure — to fill the gap left by the unavailbility of CBS’ Sunday Morning here — is streaming NPR on the laptop and falling back to sleep.