What happens when our relationships drive our art

I’d never met him before, and he’d made me cry. What was it like to be Kazuo Ishiguro, I wondered, and to know that, at any moment, you could encounter a stranger whom you’d made cry? I guess, as with anything: strange at first, and then gradually less strange. He was reading at a synagogueContinue reading “What happens when our relationships drive our art”