They fear the violence which they perceive comes from the lower levels of Argentinian society, from the so-called villas or villas miserias, the Argentine equivalent of Brazilian favelas or shantytowns…
- Numéro Cinq at the Movies: Lucrecia Martel’s “La ciudad que huye” — Introduced by Sophie M. Lavoie
- Undersung | John Malcolm Brinnin: “As Well-Known as I Deserve to Be” — Julie Larios
- It Is Not a Novelist’s Job to be Merciful: An Interview with Sam Savage—Jeff Bursey
- Isaak: from Genealogy of the First Person | Poem — D. M. Spitzer
- Uimhir a Cúig | Sons Are Older At The Speed Of Light: Poems — Macdara Woods
- Childhood: Five Wonders — Leona Theis
- Chance Encounters of the Literary Kind: Screenwriter Walter Bernstein — Robert Day
- Anti-film: Interview with Video Artist Gunilla Josephson — Ann Ireland
- The Koans of Atticus Lish: Review of Preparation for the Next Life — Tom Faure
- White Wolf, a work in progress: Fiction — Madison Smartt Bell
- The Administered World of Theodor Adorno: Essay — Jeremy Brunger
- Sing! O Bone: Essay — Julie Trimingham
- Bad Sex: Fiction — Jowita Bydlowska
- Theory and Ardour: A Review of Alice Fulton’s Barely Composed — Patrick O’Reilly
- My Struggle: Book Four | Novel Excerpt — Karl Ove Knausgaard
- A Kind of Freak, a Monster: A Review of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle: Book Four — Jeff Bursey
- Inquiring Spirit: My Friend, Jim Cerasoli (1938-2015) — Patrick J. Keane
- Top of the Page in May | Essays & Translation — Genese Grill
For me, Brinnin the Gossip comes across at times witty, at other times narcissistic; Brinnin’s poetry, on the other hand, is humble and full of wonder. Without wonder (and its co-conspirator, curiosity) poetry cannot exist…
When it started selling in the hundreds of thousands in Europe I was flabbergasted. Flabbergasted by the numbers, of course, but also by the fact that people seemed to be reading a book I didn’t know I had written.
I watch light fracture, shape itself along the bronze edge. it radiates out of the hip of my father; it rises. the sea is vastly overhead. pine and cedar spindles tinge and reverberate the knife’s call.
My father did not finish things / Such things as rows / Or playing parts And breakdowns / Retiring early Died too soon / His final words to me — A / Half a question Half unasked / At no point answered…
A finger in the flame, how long can you hold it there? Or drip some wax into the palm of your hand and feel the bite. The small rituals of our club of two in our safe little hideaway, built too small for grown-ups. We were the bosses down there. We owned the place.
But, yes, there was confusion about horses, sometimes they were horses, then they were stallions, then they were mares (when in fact they were probably all geldings). I had to untangle bridles from halters; I had to take horns off cows…
Rebellion as a theme throughout any feminist discourse is an intrinsic part of my work. From the actions of the characters (or performers) to my own use of the video camera and later in the editing process I disrupt the norms, constructing resistances to the tyranny of orthodoxy.
The most devastating aspect of Preparation for the Next Life is not its rich, understated description of wealthy nations and poor people in the Age of Terror. It’s the love story.
There was nothing to fear coming out the arched shadows between the darkening apple trees; rather fear emerged from shadowy niches inside my head only; as much as I knew it to be true my unease grew as the darkness expanded…
The nightmare of Adorno’s century has through our silent consent found a home in our own 21st, replete as it is with ever-increasing economic disparity, ever-decreasing historical literacy, fundamentalist religion become ascendant,…
An old man steals the Queen of the Night’s daughter. The queen finds her girl, and gives her a knife. The Queen, in her famously high aria, commands her daughter to stab the old lech to death. The name of this fancy, super-femme song is Hell’s Vengeance Boils in My Heart.
On the last day I would ever see him, right after we fucked inside the Starbucks stall, we were crossing the street together, me ahead of him. A fast car came from out of nowhere, from around the corner and I lunged to escape getting hit.
The subject matter itself is often grim. And in their way, these lines can take on a bleak dimension of their own, a nihilistic push off the cliff of linguistic certainty. But silence, once it has been confronted, must be pushed out.
Oh, this is the song about the young man who loves a young woman. Has he the right to use such a word as “love”? He knows nothing about life, he knows nothing about her, he knows nothing about himself.
Knausgaard peels back his more youthful self’s skin to reveal confusion, desire, and ineptitude without once asking for pity.
Alex showed me something his father had inscribed on the library wall: “My improbable God: before Infinity, there is God; after Infinity, there is God.” If that’s not good enough to get into the “religious” cemetery, to hell with them.
Top of the Page for the month of May: Genese Grill, our resident Musil, Proust, and Modernism expert, currently riding a wave of publishing success with her translation of Robert Musil essays Thought Flights (Contra Mundum Press) to be launched May 10 in New York.
Vol. VI, No. 3, March 2015
- Numéro Cinq at the Movies: Awe, Wonder & the Sublime in Filippo Baraccani’s “The Approximate Present” — R. W. Gray
- On the Shores of Darkness, There is Light | Cordelia Strube: Fiction & Interview — Ann Ireland
- Atrocities Proliferate: Review of Newspaper by Edouard Levé — Jason DeYoung
- Undersung | R. F. Langley: Between Two Worlds — Julie Larios
- In the Garden: Fiction — Gary Garvin
- Yearning for the Irretrievable | Pamela Petro: Art & Interview – JC Olsthoorn
- Uimhir a Cúig |A Callows Childhood: Memoir — Patrick Deeley
- Ralph Maud’s Prayer: Distilled | Poem — Mary Maillard
- How to Sightsee in France with your Teenage Son: Text & Photographs — Natalia Sarkissian
- Chance Encounters of a Literary Kind | Talk to Strangers and Stop on By: William Stafford — Robert Day
- Masterpieces Can’t Be Willed Into Existence: Review Portrait of a Man Known as Il Condottiere by Georges Perec — Jeff Bursey
- Bad News Waitress: Fiction — Julie Reverb
- A Choir of Pages: Review of Tom McCarthy’s Satin Island — Frank Richardson
- These are the Ferocious Challenges: An Interview With Diane Williams — Jason Lucarelli
Vol. VI, No. 4, April 2015
- Numéro Cinq at the Movies: Eugene Green’s Le Pont des Arts Introduced by R. W. Gray
- A Good Time Was Had by Some: On Assigning & Relishing the Eternal Punishment of Others — Patrick J. Keane
- Alive, Ineffably Alive: A Review of Max Blecher’s Adventures in Immediate Irreality — Eric Foley
- How do you say…in Slovak? | David Zieroth Poems & Interview — Kathryn Para
- A Way Home: Review of Mai Al-Nakib’s The Hidden Light of Objects — Natalia Sarkissian
- Fingers Around My Neck: Fiction — Jason DeYoung
- A Twisty, Haunted Masterpiece: A Review of Kelly Link’s Get in Trouble — Benjamin Woodard
- تالان (A Looting): Essay — Agri Ismaïl
- The night I spent my last nickel to call Steve: Poems — George Szirtes
- Beautifully, Wantonly: Review of Here Comes Kitty by Richard Kraft and Danielle Dutton — Natalie Helberg
- Dirty Thirties & Rugby: Short Stories — Terese Svoboda
- On Translation | Quiet Accomplishment: Remembering Cid Corman — Gregory Dunne
- I Cried to Dream Again: Song — Maura Kennedy | Introduced by Patrick J. Keane
- Reality Tour: Short Story — Toni Marques
- Uimhir a Cúig | The Ghost Estate: Novel Excerpt & Interview — John Connell
- I’m a Big Fan of the Joyful Solution: Interview with Jen Bervin — Darren Higgins