I Am Here… is a detective story, a bildungsroman, a critical reappraisal . . . it is a valentine to the couple, to the idiosyncrasies of the city that made them, and to the idea of artistic community. It is itself an artwork of surprising ambition, an attempt to push literature to the limits of its ability to reanimate memory.

Melissa Holbrook Pierson reviews I Am Here You Are Not I Love You for The Brooklyn Rail

Each of us knows that someday we will lose one another. But in this moment, the world is changeless, the map is teeming, and nothing is lost.

“Loss Is the Format: Remembering Buffalo’s Old Pink,” in Annulet Issue 8

To make an authorial leap into any Other is a high-stakes moral and aesthetic endeavor. To make the leap into a subject you love is heightened into an altogether different act, its violence arcing back.

“The Author and the Eulogist: On Love and Death in Nonfiction,” in Public Books

Only after we are certain that we have finished a piece of writing can we know precisely what we have failed to say. Among other things, this failure points us to where we must begin writing again.

“A Hole at the Bottom of the Book” in Public Books

Time continues at its plastic pace. Experience, like language, accumulates. And love, like writing, tends to want another word.

“Stet: On Cutting—and Keeping—Everything,” in The Millions