All that poetic bullshit about setting out in search of My Mount Analogue + the door to the invisible visible … all nothing. Nothing but sick me + my body in this bare room.
Claire Bond Potter
We can’t rely on Big Tech to reign over online speech.
Reading a French novelist’s examination of liminal space in a plague year
Feminism, identity, and the willingness to be defeated.
American violence and the grace of black nonchalance.
Bhanu Kapil and Jonah Mixon-Webster
A dialogue on literary somatics.
Alexander Chee, Julia Cho, Susan Choi, and Cathy Park Hong
Four Korean American writers on jeong, language, and the elusiveness of home.
Sarah Shun-lien Bynum and Yiyun Li
Why literature’s best is usually deeply flawed.
Aleshea Harris and Douglas Kearney
A dialogue on presencing Blackness.
Namwali Serpell and Maria Tumarkin
Two writers on the ethics of pen and paper.
Because I didn’t want it to end,
and because I was all alone again,
because in those seasons attention
was my only form of prayer,
I attended the summer rain.
Where did he go?
Instead of house slippers, I stuffed my feet into your heavy shoes (and they really were yours).
From The Yale Review, Spring 1967.
In possessing us, he granted us possessions: unexperienced desires and wonderments, unwarranted griefs and disillusions.
A one-person show, you in dialogue with yourself.
Aleshea Harris presents a new play and details the process that went into creating it.
Waking up after six days on a ventilator in Stockholm.
Swapping bodies, swapping ages, and re-inventing youth.
The poet and essayist discusses Asian American consciousness, the myth of meritocracy, and the shifting boundaries of whiteness.
“Please, Richard, never speak of it –
don’t speak of it again.”
The Yale Review, June 2008.
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