The Daily

Author Archive

Gchatting with George Saunders

December 23, 2013 | by

All this week, we are bringing you some of your favorite posts from 2013. Happy holidays!

On Valentine’s Day, George Saunders agreed to Gchat with The Paris Review Daily to discuss his use of the modern vernacular in fiction; his new book, Tenth of December; as well as Nicki Minaj and what is, according to Saunders, one of the great undernarrrated pleasures of living.


George: Hi Katherine - ready on this end when you are

me: Hi George!
I am prepared

George: Well, I’m not sure I am. But I am willing. :)

me: we could just do the whole thing as emoticons

:/ :l :?

George: Man, you are a virtuosiii of emoticons.

me: A symptom of my generation...

George: I only know that one.

me: You only know happiness, then.

George: No - I only know the SYMBOL for happiness. Like, I can’t do ENNUI. Read More »


Dead Authors at Fashion Week: Part 5

October 3, 2012 | by

Gertrude Stein takes notes from the front row at the Céline Spring 2013 collection.



Dead Authors at Fashion Week: Part 4

September 25, 2012 | by

Italo Calvino Attends the Prada Spring/Summer 2013 Show.

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s review of Miuccia Prada’s new collection for Spring/Summer 2013. Relax. Concentrate. Close out all other Internet windows. Set your Gchat status to Busy. Tell your friends right away, “No I don’t want to chat with you about the UN General Assembly right now, I am reading about fashion!” Type it in all caps—they won’t know that you’re yelling otherwise—“I AM READING ABOUT PRADA’S SUBVERSIVE FLOWERS ON COATS!” Or if you prefer, send them a GIF; just be like: here.

Read More »


Dead Authors at Fashion Week: Part 3

September 20, 2012 | by

Virginia Woolf attends the Burberry Prorsum Spring 2013 show.

I dread not the PR girls at the door this morning at Burberry Prorsum, though the invitation I possess is not mine. Sneaking in? Dressed as a fashion dude? I hardly consider dressing as a man to gain entry immoral; unlike me, half the so-and-sos present don’t even know what Prorsum means; O! Prorsum; Opossum. Those people invited who are supposedly “forward” thinking; people who discuss fashion though they’ve never worn Burberry; never felt the blue-black silk lining of a trench-coat sleeve; the plunge of putting on a sturdy work of satin and cotton sateen. I wanted to come in holding something. Flowers? Yes, flowers, since I do not trust my taste in Filson bags.

I take my seat and then, parading in from backstage quite composedly, the models are copper-rose clones; carrying swollen candy satchels; attractive and shiny hosts in a grand entryway; it is all perfectly correct. Some designers are to be seen as poets. Christopher Bailey; coming and going with a pin in hand; a pin and a vision; no country but England could have produced him. Happiness is this, I think. The lights come on and the end suddenly comes in a rush; the luster has gone out of it; no showgoer looks photoworthy like before; glimpsing the future, that hot pants are still in for spring, ruins everything. We rise instantly.

Then: “Virginia! Your menswear look is Uh-mazing! Your oxfords are so cute!”

Somehow I am recognized, in people’s eyes, in the swing and shuffle as we depart, it’s become known who I am. “Comme des Garcons,” I hear a lady with silver hair ornaments say, and now I confess a bit of shock overtakes me. Suddenly everywhere in the crowd I see women in blazers and fine gray-white trousers; ladies wearing collared shirts like spruce old men. Is that a tie? Awesome prorsum.




Dead Authors at Fashion Week: Part 2

September 13, 2012 | by

Ernest Hemingway goes hunting at the Marc Jacobs Spring 2013 show.

I am in range and my hat, which is in this season, is good and on, a damn cute hat, and I can see the entire show and the open runway, which is showing fashion. Afterward, Marc, who is an American man who can wear a skirt and make it look good, will throw a party. Open bar.

There she is. That’s a damn fine one, too. The spots are fine, and her hair parts in a fine way, and the dress hangs low and true and near the floor, within the finery.

It’s as dark as if it wasn’t light. I could shoot, aim, and get my shot. But then there’s the crowd. Well, the crowd. Yes, the crowd. Hm, the crowd.

Come on. Shoot. She’s not going to stand there all day and it’s already dark and in the darkness I can see the next one emerging.

Hell, is it a worthwhile head? She’s a small target with a small face and what if the dress got marked? It’s Marc Jacobs, which is too good. Which is too good.


Dead Authors at Fashion Week: Part 1

September 12, 2012 | by

F. Scott Fitzgerald Attends the Alexander Wang Spring 2013 Show.

I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere sit in front of you at the Wang show:

—“So sorry, but the front row is reserved for bloggers. Writers are in the second.”

“I am most certainly a blogger.”

—“What’s your blog?”

“It’s called Tumblr. Keeps my readers in high spirits.”

[A pause; it endured horribly.]

I cannot accept that I’m to be deprived of half the view of a show that endures for a mere five minutes. Not to mention the insult of being told by an intern. In turn, I—

—“Hi, can I take a quick picture of your style for my blog? ”

“Oh, absolutely!”

—“Wait, don’t smile.”

“Oh, no, of course, I’m sorry.”

—“And who makes your suit and shoes?”

“Happens to be a rather confidential sort of thing. You can just put ‘vintage’.”