Her name was Constance Laibe Hays. She had several beats at the New York Times before she died at 44. Today when Jill Abramson’s appointment as executive editor of The Times was announced I could hear her cheer.
Writing poetry does not have to be a solitary endeavor.
A farm equipment company spotlighting women? Now that’s a horse of a different color.
National Poetry Month is the perfect time to celebrate something tangible that the web offers everyone: poems of every stripe and stories about the people who write them.
If you are a mother, run, don’t walk, to the nearest bookstore (or e-tail outlet or downloading device) to get Justin Halpern’s "Sh*t My Dad Says." If you are a mother of mothers, do the same.
It seems as though the least we can do is inform ourselves about our National Public Radio system and its actual practices.
After an ordeal that makes a Eugene O’Neill play look like something Walt Disney threw together for pre-schoolers, the House of Dior paused to think about what mattered.
A boycott of The New Yorker? Surely there must be a more reasonable way. After all, women have always been its fairy godmothers, able to insert compassion as well as wit.
This morning I realize I want to surround myself with songs, “Happy Birthday” when another friend reaches a milestone. And every damned Beatle tune I get the opportunity to recall.
I found The Kids Grow Up very hard to watch. Perhaps that means it is an effective documentary.
As we mark the death of a gifted actor, it's for women who sat in movie theaters in 1978 to remember how she portrayed us all from the inside out in An Unmarried Woman.
Today's Google tribute to John Lennon is a behemoth bowing down to the universal truth: that the dreams of one person can engage the world and last beyond the borders of his lifetime.
Robert Duvall outdoes himself as an actor and a model of restraint in "Get Low." But Sissy Spacek is the story.