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Annie Crowley is now friends with Brooke Shilling
I'm Trying to Reach You by Barbara Browning
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The Group by Mary McCarthy
The Group
by Mary McCarthy
read in December, 2013
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Annie Crowley is currently reading
The Group by Mary McCarthy
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Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl
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The Routledge Reader in Gender and Performance by Lizbeth Goodman
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Performing Feminisms by Sue-Ellen Case
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Pentimento by Lillian Hellman
Pentimento
by Lillian Hellman
read in December, 2012
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Brecht on Theatre by Bertolt Brecht
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More of Annie's books…
Armistead Maupin
“Thack seemed to sort something out for a moment.
“Sometimes I watch him when he’s playing with Harry or digging in the yard. And I think: This is it, this is the guy I’ve waited for all my life. Then this other voice tells me not to get used to it, that it’ll only hurt more later. It’s funny. You’re feeling this enormous good fortune and waiting for it to be over at the same time.”
“You seem happy,” Brian ventured.
“I am.”
“Well … that’s a lot. I envy you that.”
Thack shrugged. “All we’ve got is now, I guess. But that’s all anybody gets. If we wasted that time being scared …”
“Absolutely.”
Armistead Maupin, Sure of You

Louisa May Alcott
“I like good strong words that mean something…”
Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

Michael Chabon
“Approaching the Williamsburg Bridge - not really certain of how he had managed to find himself there - he experienced an extraordinary moment of buoyancy, of grace. There was a lot more traffic now, but his shifting was smooth and the sturdy little car was adroit at changing lanes. He launched himself out over the East River. He could feel the bridge humming underneath his wheels and all around him could sense the engineering of it, the forces and tensions and rivets that were all conspiring to keep him aloft. To the south, he glimpsed the Manhattan Bridge, with its Parisian air, refined, elegant, its skirts hiked to reveal tapered steel legs, and, beyond, the Brooklyn Bridge, like a great ropy strand of muscle. In the other direction lay the Queensboro Bridge, like two great iron tsarinas linking hands to dance. And before him, the city that had sheltered him and swallowed him and made him a modest fortune loomed, gray and brown, festooned with swags and boas of some misty gray stuff, a compound of harbor fog and spring dew and its own steamy exhalations. Hope had been his enemy, a frailty that he must at all costs master, for so long now that it was a moment before he was willing to concede that he had let it back into his heart.”
Michael Chabon, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

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