"Nine decades before I’d heard the term 'coronavirus,' Woolf anticipated not only the necessity of escaping, but the literal and figurative refuge found by returning."
New students, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that this place has a unique ability to block out the rest of the world.
Last Tuesday I couldn’t get out of bed. I’d woken up, as I do too often these days, under the suffocating and very real pressure of a panic attack. I stayed there, the back of my head fixed against my pillow, for the better part of three hours. For those who haven’t experienced it, panic is all-consuming. ...
On entering the office, I am surprised by the scale, or lack thereof. A name like The New England Review evokes multitudes of desks, each manned by its own grey-haired reader or editor; rooms lined with large, industrial-grey bookshelves filled with manila envelopes; secretaries (one, at the very least) ...
