Falling in Love with Eve Harrington
Power structures are not static conditions—they cannot be built to last permanently and disruptions by young ambitious outsiders are inevitable.
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Posts by: Anita Felicelli
Rumpus Original Fiction: Swans and Other Lies
As she presses against Patterson, she feels her feet softening, losing gravity. He’s embracing her, willing her to disappear, swallowing her.
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Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff
Anita Felicelli reviews Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff today in Rumpus Books.
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The Story of My Teeth by Valeria Luiselli
Anita Felicelli reviews The Story of My Teeth by Valeria Luiselli today in Rumpus Books.
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The Paper Man by Gallagher Lawson
Anita Felicelli reviews The Paper Man by Gallagher Lawson today in Rumpus Books.
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Find Me by Laura van den Berg
Anita Felicelli reviews Find Me by Laura van den Berg today in Rumpus Books.
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Waved Albatross
How do we make the good thoughts stay? Can we make them stay? It’s so hard to keep in mind the slivers of time that change our lives for the better.
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The Man With The Compound Eyes by Wu Ming-Yi
Anita Felicelli reviews THE MAN WITH THE COMPOUND EYES by Wu Ming-Yi today in The Rumpus Books.
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Boy, Snow, Bird by Helen Oyeyemi
Anita Felicelli reviews BOY, SNOW, BIRD by Helen Oyeyemi today in The Rumpus Book Reviews.
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The Sacred and the Profane
There is a total silence in the West on India’s culture of dissenting women in the face of severe patriarchy and authoritarianism. It doesn’t quite fit, does it, into the dichotomy carved out for Indian women by Americans and the British…
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The Magic Bullet
The assumption is that people with mental illnesses are voiceless, can’t speak for themselves in a way that is reliable, in a way that other people want to hear or be led by. People want to hear stories of mental illness, but they don’t want to hear it from the people on the frontlines, the ones being devastated.
...moreThe Last Poem I Loved: “Under the Maud Moon” by Galway Kinnell
A round- cheeked girlchild comes awake in her crib. The green swaddlings tear open I first encountered the last poem I loved, Galway Kinnell’s “Under the Maud Moon,” eleven summers ago, after a short trip to a novel writing workshop in Iowa City. Ostensibly, I had gone to the workshop in Iowa to work and […]
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