David Oates writes about the arts, nature, and urban life from Portland, Oregon. He is author of six books of nonfiction, most recently The Mountains of Paris: How Awe and Wonder Rewrote My Life (Oregon State University Press). His essays have appeared in Georgia Review, Creative Nonfiction, and Orion, winning nonfiction awards and Pushcart Prize nominations. His poetry and prose are featured in the German literary journal Wortschau, which also published his collaboration with Johanna Hansen (in German and English) as the book Schreiben ist eine Art von Luftwiderstand (2019). The Heron Place won the 2015 Poetry Award and publication from Swan Scythe Press (San Francisco). His previous book of poetry Peace in Exile was published by Oyster River. He is general editor and founder of the small literary press Kelson Books and was Kittredge Distinguished Visiting Writer at the University of Montana. His Ph.D. in literature is from Emory University. Email: davidoatespdx [at] gmail.com
Website: http://davidoates.info
by David Oates We are always looking for the book it is necessary to read next. —Saul Bellow That quote hangs over my writing desk. Its purpose is to remind me of the urgency of writing. Not the correctness of writing, not its sentiment or fashionability or mild amusement: its urgency. Bellow wants what I…
by David Oates A missing tradition is haunting us, though we may not even realize it’s missing. It was called “conservatism,” and in the Anglo-American political tradition it has a record of partnering with liberals to create some of our greatest moments of democratic progress. Our new president did once publicly hope to govern under…
by David Oates An empty space sits where I once sat. I miss it. I miss the strangers I shared it with, and a few regulars with whom I achieved a nodding relationship. A couple of baristas I might greet and chat up. Very briefly. I miss the space itself – long and wide, its…
Text by David Oates Artwork by Alex Hirsch 1. “A more perfect union.” The Founders expressed a breezy confidence, didn’t they? As if such a thing were possible – the distant states cohered into a nation; the various occupants working it all out. Loyal. Collaborative. Taking part in the common welfare. While remaining, of course, individual and…
by David Oates We are entering the aftermath. Two of the most epic and wrenching struggles in American history are finally playing out to their conclusions. At last we see a conclusive democratic rejection of a presidency built on systematic lying and racism. At the same time we look just weeks or months ahead for…
by David Oates How hard it is to watch our national election ordeal as it draws us into yet another week of chicanery and bad faith. How hard to watch. How hard to turn away. I write this in an attempt to avoid both avoidance and obsession. (Can I do it? I’ve been trying all…
by David Oates We live in The Year Of Overlapping Catastrophes. Oh 2020, we know ye all too well. The pandemic, our very own plague. Economic depression. A quasi-fascistic con man at the head of government. The discovery that perhaps forty percent of our fellow Americans are truth-hating dupes and low-information racists. (Brits too. Decline…
by David Oates In my preceding post, I reflected on the poetry of the eighth-century Chinese master Tu Fu, which has nourished me for decades (in translation, of course). Tu Fu found a way to place himself both inside and outside the whirling political disorder of his times. I drew strength from the quiet inwardness…
by David Oates My decision not to go into downtown Portland for the protest demonstration has held up for four weeks now. The Federal provocateurs have finally begun to leave, and the threat of violence has been reduced to comparative insignificance. . . so it seems that if I were to show up now, it…
by David Oates Some time before the beginning of the quarantine, walking in a pleasantly not-fancy Portland neighborhood near my own, I was stopped dead in my tracks: Bach on the piano. And close by! Suddenly all my thoughts were of music. The day’s work dropped away; the tangles and labors of writing; the distant…