The writer on her new collection of seventy-eight stories, lyrical compression, and protecting artistic inner silence.
The writer on her new story collection, working sentence by sentence, and giving in to her influences.
Grounded in the rhythms and vernacular of Brazil’s periferias, the writer’s debut story collection, The Sun on My Head, centers on the lives of young men growing up in Rio’s favela communities.
The author discusses his debut collection, Aerialists, and the surreality of the human mind.
The writer on her new collection of stories about encroaching landscapes, disenfranchised characters, and the fleeting certainty of home.
Stories full of weird.
A pose recurs in Christos Ikonomou’s Good Will Come From the Sea: one character after another finds themselves on their knees, waiting. For the dawn, for mercy, for love.
Stories that magnify what it means to be black in America through a satirical, uncanny lens.
The author discusses her forthcoming novel My Year of Rest and Relaxation, fiction as impetus for personal change, and the inhumanity of the creative class.
This piece consists entirely of first sentences from 268 short stories published in The New Yorker over the past 20 years, from 1997 to 2017.
Jimmy, it’s your girl. The one at the desk whom you pay a living wage. This is what could be known as a wake-up call if we were the sort of people who relied upon others to remind us of our tasks.
“I love titles that sound good in the mouth.”
When she told N she was leaving, his response was that doing so would ruin him—financially.
“Nothing you will see tonight is normal,” said Elihu’s mother. It was the first exciting thing she’d ever said.
Fabulism and absurdity from an under-appreciated Italian master.
The writer on his short story collection, Hybrid Creatures, and using mathematical equations, HTML code, music symbols, and propositional logic to build narratives.
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.
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.
Passion overwhelms comprehension. Comprehension kills passion.
A posthumous collection cements the author’s reputation as a master of the short story.