“The distances are staggering. It could take you an hour to drive to a spot on the edge of the horizon, yet that spot feels like it’s just within reach,” Barry writes. “This is what it means to live on the steppe. There are no walls between you and nature. You are nature.”
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An illustrated review of Melissa Febos’s new essay collection, GIRLHOOD!
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This book is disarmingly—in fact, unnervingly—amoral.
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I’ll never see Kitamura’s exhibition in real life, but I’m still grateful to have been invited to the opening.
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The experience, rather than linear, is borealian.
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Lim has written before about experimental fiction and the need to slough off such conventions of narrative as plot.
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Metaphor can make life more bearable, meaningful, or simply comprehensible.
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The narrator then returns to normal life, only to discover that life may never be normal again.
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Combine multiple ingredients in a single stanza-bowl.
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Remember us, the characters seem to beg of the reader, imagined mirrors of the real lives lost and mourned.
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Composition here becomes a process of discernment rather than pure creation.
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It opens a field of inquiry that stretches to the far corners of culture.
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To be imbricated in hundreds of years of colonial violence is to be entangled in colorist logics and stories of loss and belonging that are rarely linear or singular.
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The Weak Spot is more interested in the invisible forces that guide our ways of being in the world.
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Hannaham reserves his most vivifying language for planes and crashes.
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Morbid humor exists for a reason: to poke fun at our inevitable ends and lighten its emotional load.
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You want to, but do you? Do you dare hope?
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Pleasures and possibilities, though, come hard-won in this book.
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An illustrated review of Laurie Woolever’s new book, BOURDAIN.
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Active Reception writes into the place where language fails.
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Slipstream may as well be what we call our bewilderment.
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Poems echo, rebound, and speak to one another.
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Amid all this survival, Cho carries the reader through with the comfort of food.
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Like a buoy, Agodon’s poems rise above and go below the surface.
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The best books I have read about motherhood have not reassured me that these feelings will resolve.
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The individual and the crowd might prove as false a binary as anything else, even that [perforated] line sketched between poetry and prose.
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To have lost, found, and then lost again seems especially wrenching, a kind of unmothering.
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An illustrated review of Sumana Roy’s new essay collection, HOW I BECAME A TREE!
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These are the terms Lahiri was trying to, seeking to find in Italian: this is her creed as a fiction writer.
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