In the Current Issue
Kathy Acker’s Library
By Julian Brimmers
Where Do We Go When We Read?
By The Paris ReviewWhere do we go when we’re reading? Are we in the room, or have we disappeared between the pages? In her new book Voyagers, Melissa Catanese compiles anonymous black-and-white found photographs of people lost in that liminal space between this world…
The Daily
Look
Dimmer
By Joy WilliamsMal Vester had a pa who died in the Australian desert after drinking all the water from the radiator of his Land Rover. His momma had died just like the coroner said she had, even though he had lost the newspaper clipping that would have proved it.
From the Archive, Issue 48
Fiction
The Capacity to Be Alone
By Anna MoschovakisI don’t like novels. I love a few novels and brought some of them with me: The Hour of the Star, Woman at Point Zero, Forever Valley, Maud Martha, Wittgenstein’s Mistress. I also brought a few novels, or novel-like books, that I had not yet rea…
The Daily
Arts & Culture
Why Poetry
By Craig Morgan TeicherAs if in answer to a primordial urge, / I longed for something / to which to / apprentice myself. / I could not learn / to becomemy mother for obvious / reasons that were not obvious
From the Archive, Issue 206
Poetry
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Poetry Rx: Nevertheless, Live
By Claire SchwartzIn our column Poetry Rx, readers write in with a specific emotion, and our resident poets—Sarah Kay, Kaveh Akbar, and Claire Schwartz—take turns prescribing the perfect poems to match. This week, Claire Schwartz is on the line. Dear Poets, Is the…
The Daily
Poetry Rx
Letter from Cambridge
By J. D. DanielsA couple of years ago I joined one of those clubs where they teach you how to knock the shit out of other people. The first lesson is how to get the shit knocked out of yourself. The first lesson is all there is. It lasts between eighty and a hundred years, depending on your initial shit content.
From the Archive, Issue 194
Letters & Essays
Funes the Memorious
By Jorge Luis BorgesI remember him (I have no right to utter this sacred verb, only one man on earth had that right and he is dead) with a dark passion flower in his hand, seeing it as no one has ever seen it, though he might look at it from the twilight of dawn till that of evening, a whole lifetime. I remember him, with his face taciturn and Indian-like and singularly remote, behind the cigarette. I remember (I think) his angular, leatherraiding hands.
From the Archive, Issue 28
Fiction
Heralds of Delicioso Coco Helado
By Rowan Ricardo Phillipsfor Roland Burn / The moods of the cantaloupe king are moods / Of the melon king in green variations. / Both entered the orange parlor like nation / Seeking peace from their wintered wars in the woods.
