“There is, as Tom Wolfe, for example, has pointed out in The Bonfire of the Vanities, a currently thriving admiration for illiteracy. We reel from too much, too fast, surface communication, which proliferates into a frenzy of quick yells, while communication at any depth goes on, like an underground river, suspect but unsuppressable.”
“A poem is never done,” the writer Sandra Cisneros told me in July, over dinner at La Posadita, a restaurant in San Miguel de Allende, the Mexican city where she’s lived for almost ten years. Wearing a black-and-white huipil and her hair in two small, high buns, Cisneros ordered platters of fideo seco and nopales for the table. We had met to talk about her new poetry collection, “Woman Without Shame,” just out from Knopf. Though it’s been twenty-eight years since she’s published a book of poems, she’s never stopped writing them. “I’d throw my poems under the bed, like Emily Dickinson,” she said.