Posts Tagged: French

The Rumpus Poetry Book Club Chat with Chen Chen

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Chen Chen discusses his new collection When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities, playing the game white supremacy has set up, and if God is trying and failing to be a cool dad. ...more

The Rumpus Book Club Chat with Iben Mondrup and Kerri Pierce

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Iben Mondrup and Kerri Pierce discuss the translation of Justine, Mondrup's 2012 Danish novel about a young artist in Denmark. ...more

Spotlight: The Rumpus Review of Panthers in the Hole

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Brandon Hicks reviews Panthers in the Hole, a new graphic novel from by Bruce and David Cénou. ...more

Reading Mademoiselle Gantrel

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We squinted into the smoky room and saw ourselves on junior year abroad, frolicking on the Left Bank with artists in berets like hers. ...more

The Rumpus Review of Mustang: Five French Girls Walk into an Anatolian Village

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The Rumpus Interview with Etgar Keret

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Writer Etgar Keret talks about his new memoir The Seven Good Years, the early criticism he faced as a writer, and the surreal that is always waiting. ...more

The Rumpus Interview with Kate Walbert

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Author Kate Walbert talks about her new novel, The Sunken Cathedral, about the way cities change over time, and her approach to using footnotes in fiction. ...more

Word of the Day: Atelier

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(n.); artist’s studio or workshop; c. 1840, from the old French astelier (“carpenter’s workshop, woodpile”)

“Part of what I loved about poetry was how the distinction between fiction and nonfiction didn’t obtain,” [Lerner] says, “how the correspondence between text and world was less important than the intensities of the poem itself.”

From “With Storms Outside, Inner Conflicts Swirl”

How the old French word for a splinter of wood (astelle, likely from the Latin astula) evolved to eventually refer to an artist’s abode may be fodder only for the most archaic linguist.

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Learning French, And Other Escapes

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“Here I am wanting some other language to rescue me, wanting some escape route, when the very desire to transform, to mean something in the world, to take to the air, is such a chubby little caterpillar urge. If I were only a bit older and sadder, a bit more eager to trot out pleasant prose, would I soon be puttering around Provence, writing some whimsical foodie memoir and chuckling about the locals?

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