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Edith Iglauer


Edith Iglauer is the author of five books, including Inuit Journey and The Strangers Next Door, and many articles in The New Yorker and other publications.

A new pet kitten becomes part of the family. more

Dispatches

A warm spring night, a country club dance,a date with an attractive young man—and braces on my two front teeth. more

Dispatches

Edith Iglauer invites Pierre Trudeau over for dinner and gets Barbara Streisand as a bonus. more

Dispatches

First published in Geist #30 and now in the 20th Anniversary Collector's Edition. more

Dispatches

When I was living in New York in the 1960s, almost everyone I knew was walking or running to the office of some psychiatrist. more

Dispatches 4 Comments

The police officer turned us back and told us to for­get about Stanley Park and for­get about sightseeing anywhere in Vancouver. more

Dispatches 2 Comments

Plumb the depths of the Aquafit subculture with our embedded nonagenarian. more

Dispatches 1 Comments

At home Frank and I are mutually sympathetic to the obligation to face one another and speak loudly; or, when we are away, to supply each other with new batteries when we forget them; but we have no defence against the independent wandering behaviour of our hearing aids. They are always someplace else. I probably have spent one percent of my life, close to a whole year, looking for the damned things. more

Dispatches

During my thirty years living on the waterfront of British Columbia, I have always had some sort of container in which to sit on the water. My first boat was a ten-foot dinghy that my late husband John Daly, a commercial salmon troller, equipped with a small electric motor to surprise me. He had the bizarre idea that I, a sometime canoeist from Ohio, could manoeuvre a boat on my own around our capacious Pacific coast harbour. The electric engine would be ideal for me, he thought. No rope to pull to start it up! No gasoline tank on board! more

Essays

When I was twelve my father enrolled me in a typing course from which I emerged typing with two fingers. more

Dispatches

I had my car at the hotel but snow was expected, and driving home alone in a snowstorm around the hairpin curves edged with deep ravines on Highway 101 was the last thing I wanted to do. more

Dispatches

ADVICE FOR THE LIT-LORN
WRITING QUESTIONS, QUANDARIES & PICKLES

Why has the perfectly good noun "gift" been twisted into use as a verb, replacing the perfectly good verb "give"?

—Constance, Coquitlam BC

Read the answer from Geist Editors!

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