The Last Book I Loved: Brief Interviews with Hideous Men
It’s not easy to explain David Foster Wallace’s Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, especially to a co-worker or a parent, or your wife or your wife’s friend. First you have…
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You Simply Die of Want
The poems are themselves stealthy, hiding but then eventually revealing themselves to the writers. Or the stealth writers, both Seaton and Ace autonomous and authentic somewhere in that collaborative voice.
FUNNY WOMEN #74: My Debilitating Anxiety Decodes My Unread Work Emails
When you send me an email, don’t think I don’t know what you’re really saying.
Diane Williams Q&A
McSweeney’s interviews Diane Williams, author of this month’s Rumpus Book Club selection, Vicky Swanky Is a Beauty. Williams discusses the humor in her short story collection, being read to as…
Patrick Pineyro: The Last Book I Loved, Ulysses
The moment when a new book is begun it is a moment that vibrates, as potential energy (a writer’s wisdom distilled into a completed work, printed, bound, placed in your…
February’s Rumpus Book Club Pick
February’s Rumpus Book Club selection is A Very Minor Prophet by James Bernard Frost. Warm up with this excerpt from Hawthorne Books, and if you’re not yet on-board, consider joining…
Ted Wilson Reviews the World #120
TERMITES ★★★★★ (1 out of 5) Hello, and welcome to my week-by-week review of everything in the world. Today I am reviewing termites.
Denied the Work of Natural Generation
Haunted by the paradoxes associated with Shakerism that both glorified and doomed it, Kirchwey uses the place of Mount Lebanon to explore a layering of spaces and themes that accesses…
Swinging Modern Sounds #33: The Sweet Spot
For an entire decade, between 1975 and 1985, Brian Eno could do no wrong. In fact, even for the four or five years before 1975 he could do no wrong.
A Busted Advent Calendar
The Weary World Rejoices has its unadorned moments of grief, punctuated by moments of energetic wit and intelligent levity.
“Ode to Ross Watson,” a Rumpus Original Poem by Steve Fellner
Ode to the Painter Ross Watson Don’t imagine me as the woman who you replicated from the Vermeer