The writer on making hard choices, being raised by feminists, and her latest novel's newfound wisdom.

The singer went to Africa, she said, in search of peace, or a husband, or maybe the feeling of home.

I was disgusted with the satellite, disgusted with the image in my mind: a stocky robot, careening embarrassingly into the eternal.

On Bloomsday, reflecting on the famous kiss.

The singular power of portraiture's 20th century master.

The contentious effort to transform a remote Pakistani town into the epicenter of the new world order.

There she is—my beloved. Still in the pullover they’d call a chemise, its color a sweet red they’d call cyclamen, and the voices around us would cut out.

Here comes the hard part, the Land of the Dead / floating just above my head

The essayist on the first person and the end of humanity.

The novelist on Syria, censorship, and the safety—and power—of metaphor.