Camilo Restrepo’s debut feature, Los Conductos, traces the wanderings of a wiry mendigo named Pinky, in a sepulchral unnamed city.

Staging historical justice in Hernán Ronsino’s Glaxo

“How many fragments are needed in order to describe the life of man?”

“A writer worried about reception is cooking a dead book. A writer’s job is to produce the best possible book in absolute freedom, so the category ‘acceptable’ does not play in the process at all.”

From the train I could look out onto the infinite blue of the sea. I was still exhausted, wakeful from the overnight transatlantic flight to Rome, but looking out at the sea, that Mediterranean sea that was so infinite and so blue, made me forget it all, even myself. I don’t know why.

So they invite you to Nueva York, all expenses paid, to participate in an event for Stonewall, twenty years after the police brawl starring the gay girls who, in 1964, took over a bar in the Village. 

Our first lot is a piece in a somewhat deteriorated state. Yet, considering its antiquity, the overall condition is good; one might even say excellent.

Suddenly, during a pause in his monologue, Federico Pérez cautioned me not to become too lost in circumlocution.

That winter the city was full of ravens. 

This article is only available in print.

The Catalan author of The No World Concerto talks about his early collaborations with Roberto Bolaño and the slew of novels that followed a lengthy hiatus from writing.

Shakespeare in Buenos Aires.

It’s hard to pin down exactly what happens with Lost Portraits, an almost mythical series of Super 8 and 16mm shorts—filmed between 1982–85 in Mexico City and New York—depicting Nicolayevsky’s young friends and peers while he was a film student at NYU.

“One is constantly working over what happened and constructing the future based on the past. So there’s no way of saying now we’re done with the past and it’s time to look for our future. No, there’s a direct continuity between these things.”

“I begin listening and recognizing silence, meditating until I hear the blood circulating, and then start following the beats, making marks, one by one, line by line, emptying myself until the entire surface of the canvas is covered.”

No. XXXXXXXXXX is a personal atlas of the ways in which the letter X has been used in contemporary Mexican architecture.

With the intention of writing another of those works that belong to the ineffable category of the latest literary revelations, Nonici Murla brushes everything aside and begins to toil without interruption on his first book, a novelized biography of Gottfried von Gennrich, sorcerer in the service of Henri I, ”The Fowler.”

In his most recently translated novel, Sergio Chejfec continues to craft a style and world all his own.