August in my Father’s House

Michael Ignatieff

It is after midnight. They are all in bed except me. I have been waiting for the rain to come. A shutter bangs against the kitchen wall and a rivulet of sand trickles from the adobe wall in the long room where I sit. The lamp above my head twirls in the draught. Through the poplars, the forks of lig…

Funny Noises with our Mouths
Impertinent Daughters