Letters to My Generation

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Too much reminds me of something else lately. The slanted winter light; the musty smell emanating from the abandoned buildings I pass, or the old books I rummage through in stalls at the market; the parks all barren trees and lush carpets of dark green grass; rain spots on the…
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Everything in the narrow lanes of marble and granite mausoleums, monuments and headstones glows with that peculiar half-light of late autumn, early…
Padraic Veum
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I am at a loss for words. I am at a loss for words in three languages. There are experiences in life we know we shall encounter and there are those that…
Padraic Veum
“How does someone from Nebraska end up living in Lisbon?” I am asked this question every week by American and British visitors to the Portuguese…
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The air is silver with sea mist—the hills of Setúbal, beyond the Rio Tejo, glimmer watercolor like, their serenity at odds with the roar of airplanes…
Padraic Veum
On Keeping Journals
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"The bookcase glows, backlit in crimson light—tall and broad, its shelves empty—" This singular sentence is all that survives of the fourth draft of…
Padraic Veum
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I have been homesick lately. Not for any of the nine states, two countries and dozens of towns and cities in which I have lived, but for a particular…
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