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In New York, everything sounds back to Vietnam…
A German play based on a French memoir reflects on the global Left’s abandonment of the working class—and finds additional significance in the Age of Trump.
The playwright discusses his formative years, rejuvenation of historical material, and how race is coded into theatergoing itself.
There is a tone I want, but I don’t know how to get it.
As Kings Wharf remained congested with packets off-loading the first class—and the morning slipping away fast—Papee made arrangements with a fisherman, hailed over to the side of the Rosalind, to row us ashore in his small pirogue.
“We face the book when reading. We do not read out of the corner of our eyes; to read is to turn the body toward the letter.”
Men in pig masks snort moon off a marble table then strap on metallic suits with honeycomb wire wings, oxygen canisters tight on their backs, and fly upward and pull the screen-for-sky across the sky.
He had lain down beside the trench and had a dream so lifelike he could not believe it was his alone.
Ever since I was little I’ve heard my mother tell the story, more than once, that when they presented me at church, barely forty days old, the preacher predicted that I would not be like other boys, that every step I took would be a step toward Jehovah.
I went away from this place and I lived somewhere else.
He has things to tell me, W. says when I meet him at Newcastle airport in the morning. Great things!
What is it about my dad being dead that I can’t say it enough?
ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING
HYDROPHOBE BORN UNDER WATER
; there was the time I stood outside; it had snowed the night before;
Gordon zipped closed the pup tent’s interior window and cranked the activator on the bug bomb he’d set atop his sleeping bag.
Rachel Mercer speaks with author Claire Vaye Watkins about her first collection of short stories, Battleborn, and about home, homesickness, and moving on.