One night, driving along Blue River Road, I’m startled and disoriented by the shock of headlights coming up over a hill. When you’re night blind like me, the vision blurs, and in that moment before clarity returns, you see only edges of images—here, a road sign; there, a sycamore—and feel suspended, not quite yourself, not quite alone.
Is there any poet like Robert Frost today? Billy Collins comes close. Unlike so many poets—but very much like Frost—Collins writes work that sells. He was given the title …
Most people see the world in color, yet artists can conjure up whole worlds—both realistic and imaginary—by using black pigments on white paper. Our ability to understand these drawings suggests …
In my line of work, I stare at shades of black.
My work starts on dark, black nights, when there is no moon or reflection from it. The telescopes I …
For many of us in the modern world, light at the flick of a switch feels so natural that it’s difficult to imagine a time when even the meager flame …
Which is to say the light we make with each other is beguiling—like watching fire, we can’t seem to turn away. Even when we feel burning, not a folly, but …
