On the other side of a screen, in a home in Los Angeles, a renowned American short-story writer reflects on the core engine of his craft: truth. This force is carried by voices and inner monologues that reveal ordinary people under extraordinary conditions. For him, truth emerges out of necessity. He recalls a Chicago childhood where being cool meant looking a certain way, and he lacked both looks and athleticism. Yet an alternative path to capture attention existed: imitating celebrities, or better yet, embodying a professor. The pinnacle, he says, was creating a character with a fully imagined biography and voice. Even today, without a distinctive voice, storytelling cannot happen. Someone speaks, and the voice conveys the tale.
His career spans a range of fascinating story collections, including The Pastoral, the vivid December 10, and an eccentric novel published to date as Lincoln in the Bard. His most recent perception of the world arrived in a gently animated encounter with an animal—a good-natured fox capable of quoting Dickens. Yet the fox cannot master language merely by imitation; it learns the human tongue by listening to a mother tell stories to her children.
Fox 8 (Seix Barral) stands as a fairy tale that first appeared in a British newspaper. It appears to be a compassionate fable suited for children, but its themes run deeper: responsibility toward all living beings and environmental stewardship. The book in progress, Liberation Day, will soon reach readers in the United States and will be illustrated by Chelsea Cardenal. Early reactions from respected peers, including Jonathan Franzen and Zadie Smith, have been enthusiastic. This small volume invites social critique without losing its charm, and it naturally evokes comparisons to Roald Dahl and Wes Anderson’s The Fantastic Mr. Fox.
our house is falling
The writer notes that the environmental thread began unconsciously, taking shape as the work unfolded. The fox, capable of speaking yet hampered in expression, becomes a conduit for humor that also carries a serious message. The author rises with a sense of urgency about climate discussions that have taken place recently. He sees a metaphor for a family home at risk, with a loved one inside, and this stark image becomes a call to readers: storytelling can move hearts and spark change. If a single heart shifts, political transformation may follow.
From this stance, political change appears as a recurring undercurrent in his fiction. Even seemingly distant stories carry a political resonance, as demonstrated by a Chekhov tale about a coachman who loses his son to unheeded pleas and a rented sleigh rider. The writer suggests that a single story, multiplied many times, could echo a broader historical upheaval.
Why did they vote for Trump?
The diaristic pieces written for The New Yorker reveal a careful attempt to understand voters while acknowledging a fault line in public discourse. The author argues that Trump cannot be blamed for every failure of the era; discontent among citizens sparked unrest that the left sometimes failed to interpret. A belief emerges that some damage from the previous presidency may have been repaired, contributing to fatigue with extremism among Republicans. A persistent worry is the era of post-reality, a climate where conspiracy theories endure. The writer stresses the need for sensitivity to these dynamics.
There is a long-held link between the author’s work and practice in Buddhism, a thread spanning two decades. Buddhism, he says, teaches interconnectedness with all beings and discourages retreat into a private fortress. This idea informs a famous university speech about happiness, which resonated online and sparked conversation about kindness as a practical value. The fox in his fiction mirrors this gentleness, and the author aims to understand human behavior: why people can be so imaginative yet capable of harm. Fiction becomes a tool to ask questions, with hopeful outcomes even if answers remain elusive. A kinder world is a better one, and kindness itself can ease despair.