On resisting parasitic invasions—from the poisons in our soil, to toxic masculinity in the psyche.
The writer on her new story collection about the lives of the displaced and the daily estrangements we all face.
My twin and I met in the Midwestern college town where she lives, at a fan convention for Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I was dressed as Faith, the bad slayer in black leather and burgundy lips.
Laker gold is how Pops describes it. To Little Man, though, that motherfucker is yellow. Canary yellow and dirty. Little Man knows it’s a Westview Public Works truck, even though the WPW tag was zig-zagged over with black spray paint.
We’re walking through the centered skylight spaces of the mall. I drop back on the cloud-white floor tiles, holding my phone up to record a video. Beautiful in its own way to watch in reality, but when I replay the video, following Alice into a store selling soap, the video doesn’t show Alice, only oval shaped air heat-trembling at the edges. I replay it three times, shocked each time when I’m unable to see her.
The author discusses his debut collection, Aerialists, and the surreality of the human mind.
The poet on the physicality of language, making a process to mess it up, and curiosity as optimism.
He used a specific verb, which I forgot to write down: screw. With the bottles screwed into your breasts… It all started with screwing, what does he make of that.
The author of The Third Hotel on existential noir, travel psychology, and what horror film theory can reveal about the human condition.
I planned to write a book about / the color blue. Now I’m suddenly surrounded / by green, green gagging me / pleasurably, green holding onto my hips / from behind, digging into / the cleft, the cleft // that can be made.
The writer on surrendering, working through her avoidance, and using her body as an anchor.
The writer on the artistic and emotional merits of reality TV.
Overcast cobalt, tile unbolted, pictures / On loan require empty space / Like an expletive. Grisaille pigeons, / Endemic to our swamp of / Commission.
I meet the artist, who does x, for a snack one afternoon. We have the kind of conversation it was more necessary to have previous to the existence of the Internet. We exchange general info about the world.
We went into the garden to pick out a poison blocker / We saw fish mint / A lizard’s tail / A chameleon plant / Your heartleaf / My fishwort
Writing as an intransitive catastrophe and the hyperbole of literature.
I was the type of man who got his ears cleaned. I was the type of woman who didn’t like dogs. We lived together in a house on a street that was the color of asphalt. I told you what I thought of you.
February 1 marked the centenary of Muriel Spark’s birth, and we’re celebrating with a selection of the British master’s aphorisms, notes, and observations.
I just said I didn’t know / and now you are saying / you aren’t sure I’m cool / that’s cool
Four generations of unhappiness populate the French auteur’s latest.