Come Be My Light: The Private Writings of the Saint of Calcutta (Doubleday, $22.95) is a disturbing book, one that has become a lightning rod for commentators of every stripe, from believers to unbelievers. Can it also be read as a consoling book? I believe so, though the consolation is not “c
I met the writer Donald McCaig a decade ago on a sheep farm he had created for himself near Williamsville, Va., (pop. 16) in rural Highland County. He had left the tense and competitive ad game in New York more than 25 years earlier. My wife, Judy, and I went for a weeklong stay. Though not p
The contemporary poet Franz Wright expresses a sense of human life as a brief hiatus between an immense before and after. The cold and dark was Wright’s environment for decades of his life, starting from age eight, when divorce took his much-admired father, the poet James Wright, out of the ho
The summer solstice was around the corner, but our seasonal fog had not yet appeared. Instead, we were experiencing day after day of clear, brilliant skies. Without any shades on our second-story bedroom window, I could raise up my head at first light and survey from my pillow what seemed to be a ne