Plain old sloth

A case of soul-weariness

I’ve had plenty of chances to laugh at myself in the last year. Once, when I was sunk so deep in lethargy and sloth that there seemed no end in sight, an interviewer termed me “a docent of hope.” How comical, to be reminded that the books I churned out over the past ten years—Dakota, The Cloister Walk, Amazing Grace and The Virgin of Bennington—were out there in the world, proclaiming good news while I sat stupefied, unable to write even a postcard.


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