Without a sense of place the work is often reduced to a cry of voices in empty rooms, a literature of the self, at its best poetic music; at its worst a thin gruel of the ego.
If a statue of St. Joseph is buried somewhere in Sandra Cisneros’ yard, please unearth it.
That’s unfair and selfish, I know. But she’s not just writing about her neighborhood, it’s mine as well.
Her writer’s quill is one contributing immensely to this porcupine of a city.