The Danish poet on corporeal poetics, pregnancy, and the influence of classical music.
A rediscovered novel and memoir depict a character we are lucky to have on the page. In life he would mortify us.
Corruption, capitalism, and death in Puglia.
“The book can draw in different audiences without catering to them. There’s a kind of rigorous hospitality, an aperture for dialogue.”
It is both a memoir of Lindon’s literary friendships and a treatise on survival, a tribute to the friends whose care and love, in Lindon’s words, saved his life, even as they were themselves lost.
The French writer Édouard Louis recorded his days in New York, around the time of the American release of his novel The End of Eddy. The following entries originally appeared in French in the June 6, 2017, edition of Les Inrockuptibles.
“There’s often a gap between what we’re trying to say and what we are able to say. Sometimes I’m successful and sometimes I fail. Sometimes it’s painful and sometimes I get into that space where it feels right. That’s the high.”
The Spanish novelist confronts the monstrosity of James Earl Ray.
Female intelligence and female obsession, in the air
Fiction in search of a vanished homeland
New titles and reissues highlighted by Justin Taylor, Chelsea Hodson, Paul La Farge, Emmalea Russo, Alexandra Kleeman, Ted Dodson, Dan Sheehan, Kristen Radtke, Daniel Saldaña París, Marjorie Welish, Tobias Carroll, Jonathan Lee, Scott Esposito, and Lauren LeBlanc
THE GRANDUNCLE (stands up in the middle of the wake. Taps his glass with a spoon)
A Chilean American poet maps the troubling parallels between his native land under Pinochet and the present-day US.
If the experimental French writing group Oulipo were to be reborn today, would they return as performance artists? Anne Garréta’s 2002 Prix Médicis–winning novel, Not One Day, marks her as a literary acrobat suspended between those who hold on to the group’s relevance and those who have let it go in favor of conceptual art practices.
Legacy and estrangement in Diego Zúñiga’s Camanchaca
I got on the bus and saw that my seat was at the end of the aisle, next to a very pretty blonde. Typical blonde girl’s freckles under her eyes. She was wearing a black sweater and blue velvet pants. Her seat was next to the window.
I’d rather be in my bed, eyes in the dark, lying on my back, head resting on a soft pillow, than in the desert, even in the company of Félicien David, even in the company of Sarah.