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A Reading by Rick Moody
Monday, April 4, 2016
2:30 pm – 3:45 pm EST/GMT-5
Campus Center, Weis Cinema
 [A Reading by Rick Moody] The celebrated author of Garden State, The Ice Storm, The Ring of Brightest Angels Around Heaven, Purple America, The Black Veil: A Memoir with Digressions, and other books reads from his new novel, Hotels of North America.

Introduced by Bradford Morrow and followed by a Q&A, the reading takes place at 2:30 p.m. in Weis Cinema, Bertelsmann Campus Center, and is free and open to the public; no tickets or reservations are required.

"Rick Moody is one of the most prodigiously talented writers in America." – Wall Street Journal

"Moody is a stylishly clever writer." —Time

"Rick Moody writes exquisite, word-smitten prose." —Elle

"Entertaining and often poignant, Rick Moody probes the limits of technology, consciousness, and language in the face of grief." – The New Yorker

"Moody’s powers of invention, his ease in his own prose, his ability to develop interesting characters — in short, his enormous gifts as a writer — are on full display." – New York Times Book Review
 

Contact: Micaela Morrissette, mmorriss@bard.edu, 845-758-7054
http://www.rickmoodybooks.com/

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In Print

Vol. 75
Dispatches from Solitude
Fall 2020
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

March 3, 2021
The roses never looked so good before we gained a dormant garden
help. But roses burn in just one day of this appalling desert heat. An
effervescent sun burning the roses as I must wish it would inflame all
features of the abhorrent politicians plunging a nation into ruin ... and archaeology! We look in vain for faces from a human past.
February 24, 2021
Then geese cycle madly
across a pond
like Wile E. Coyote
three feet past the cliff—

catch lift
and join the great migration.
February 17, 2021
We’re coming home from school, walking up the hill, Marco in front, his head down, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, Laurel behind him, the collar of her shirt spilling out of her sweater like a tropical plant, then Samantha, agitated, as if struggling to free several birds from the snags in her hair, and finally Peter, our little brother, who lags behind us and sings:

           and all the people said
           what a shame that he’s dead
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