Articles

  • 1 month ago | nybooks.com | Merve Emre |Meghan O’Rourke

    Meghan O’Rourke is a best-selling, award-winning poet, memoirist, and critic who also happens to be my neighbor. She is the person whose door I knock on when I want to discuss an idea for a book or rehearse the argument of an essay, or to gossip, or to propose a crazy, impractical scheme like opening an independent bookstore in our college town.

  • Nov 8, 2024 | internazionale.it | Meghan O’Rourke

    Questo articolo è stato pubblicato il 14 novembre 2014 nel numero 1077 di Internazionale. Elena Ferrante è una scrittrice italiana nata a Napoli o nei dintorni. Sembra che sia stata sposata, potrebbe aver vissuto in Grecia e, a quanto pare, è una madre. O almeno così pensiamo. In un’era di autopromozione satura di Twitter, Ferrante è una sconosciuta che vuole rimanere tale.

  • Sep 4, 2024 | yalereview.org | Meghan O’Rourke

    Meghan O’Rourke A risk of all writing about embodiment is that the writer’s thinking overtakes the messy material itself, leading to banality or sentimentality or false tidiness. Everyone knows that writing about sex is hard; what fewer people are aware of is that it is just as hard, or even harder, to write about illness. (Working on my last book, The Invisible Kingdom: Reimagining Chronic Illness, I found myself lamenting the fact that literature has so little to say about illness.

  • May 13, 2024 | yalereview.org | Meghan O’Rourke

    Meghan O’Rourke Miranda July, the writer, filmmaker, and artist, has written “the First Great Perimenopause Novel,” as The New York Times Magazine proclaimed last week. I came to a similar conclusion while reading the novel in question, All Fours, which chronicles one woman’s journey into menopause and out of a marriage. The unnamed protagonist is forty-five years old and, like July, is a semi-famous artist who lives in Los Angeles with a husband and one young child.

  • May 6, 2024 | theatlantic.com | Meghan O’Rourke

    At breakfast the other week, I noticed a bulging lump on my son’s neck. Within minutes of anxious Googling, I’d convinced myself that he had a serious undiagnosed medical condition—and the more I looked, the more apprehensive I got. Was it internal jugular phlebectasia, which might require surgery? Or a sign of lymphoma, which my father had been diagnosed with before he died?

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