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The Spring Revel
The Paris Review is mourning the loss of our publisher Susannah Hunnewell, who died June 15 at her home in New York at the age of fifty-two. In this post, we are gathering the intimate remembrances of those who knew her well.
In our column Poetry Rx, readers write in with a specific emotion, and our resident poets take turns prescribing the perfect poems to match. This week, Kaveh Akbar is on the line.
This week, the staff of ‘The Paris Review’ goes to Montreal, considers the scaffold, and listens to Bob Dylan for hours upon hours.
Our monthly column Feminize Your Canon explores the lives of underrated and underread female authors.
“One man wrote me, saying, ‘You know who you are? You're nothing but a Captain Bly pissing up a drainpipe!’”
Tonight, the light lasts and lasts. The solstice is a special day, irregular, when doors swing open that are otherwise closed. There are extra layers of possibility afoot. Open yourself, why not, ease yourself toward a more primal state of mind.
Cooking up recipes drawn from the works of various writers.
In Brazil we knocked the doors of poor people. They answered in threadbare football jerseys, in stained mesh shorts, in Havaianas thin as reeds. We called them humble. We called them receptive. We were Mormon missionaries. We were chest-deep in optimism.
I used to be friendly with a kid called Sam Bamburger, whose mother was the first woman I ever heard of to get divorced. Sam was about nine at the time and up to that point something of an all-American kid, except maybe shorter and paler.