Christopher Borrelli: Ana Castillo’s new book makes you see stories everywhere. Or maybe they’re ghosts.
CHICAGO — Ana Castillo reclined on the off-white gallery chair and I apologized for looking like a slob, but where I had to be next required more informal clothing, and so, I apologized —
“For not dressing professionally?”
Yeah, I laughed nervously, I’m driving to —
“A baseball game?”
She didn’t laugh but smiled flatly and I couldn’t tell if she was insulted or joking or not joking but kind of joking. I never do know. She wore white pants stylishly frayed at the cuffs and a white sweater beneath a denim jacket embroidered elegantly on the sleeves, a piece from a Spanish designer, but Castillo is not the type to give plugs and decides not to spill the label.
I’ve never entirely gotten a handle on Ana Castillo. Although, to be fair, who has? One of Chicago’s best living writers (and a of the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame), she’s often mentioned in
