From the Archive
The Art of Editing No. 3
By Maxine Groffsky
Rearranging the House at Night
By Ann BeattieIn our new series, Procrastination Confessional, writers share the strange things they do to avoid writing. It has long been my assertion that writers will do anything in order to avoid writing. Ask any of my former students. Teaching used to be t…
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Procrastination Confessional
New Orleans Notebooks
By Tennessee WilliamsTennessee Williams first visited New Orleans at the end of 1938, when he was twenty-seven years old. “Here surely is the place that I was made for if any place on this funny old world” he wrote in his journal.
From the Archive, Issue 176
Letters & Essays
Little Red and Big Bad
By Gabrielle BellThe second installment of the original, true, biographical version of ‘Little Red Riding Hood’
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Our Correspondents
The Poet of Ignorance
By Anne SextonPerhaps the earth is floating, / I do not know. / Perhaps the stars are little paper cutups / made by some giant scissors, / I do not know.
From the Archive, Issue 60
Poetry
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Staff Picks: Morphine, Martyrs, Microphones
By The Paris ReviewThe other evening, after my colleagues had all gone, I slouched into one of our office reading chairs and dipped into Paul Yoon’s latest collection of short stories, The Mountain. I didn’t get far—I read “A Willow and the Moon,” which op…
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This Week’s Reading
Rain Moving In
By John AshberyThe blackboard is erased in the attic / And the wind turns up the light of the stars, / Sinewy now. Someone will find out, someone will know. / And if somewhere in this great planet / The truth is discovered, a patch of it, dried, glazed by the sun, / It will just hang on, in its own infamy, humility. No one / Will be better for it, but things can’t get any worse.
From the Archive, Issue 90
Poetry
“Very simple love that believes in words,…”
By Patrizia CavalliVery simple love that believes in words, / since I cannot do what I want to do, / can neither hug nor kiss you, / my pleasure lies in my words / and when I can I speak to you of love. / So, sitting with a drink in front of me, / the place filled with people,
From the Archive, Issue 205
Poetry
The System
By John AshberyThe system was breaking down. The one who had wandered alone past so many happenings and events began to feel, backing up along the primal vein that led to his center, the beginning of a hiccup that would, if left to gather, explode the center to the extremities of life, the suburbs through which one makes one’s way to where the country is.
