Nonfiction

Kieran Setiya 

How cosmic horror gave me hope.

Maureen Sun 

Raised by neglectful parents, I didn’t know my name until I went to kindergarten. Then I became a writer.

Erica Berry 

How to mourn a planet.

Hannah Sassoon 

The secret story of a forger whose photographs memorialized the anonymous faces of post-war Paris.

Adolfo Kaminsky 

A portfolio of the work of Adolfo Kaminsky, the forger who saved the lives of 14,000 Jews, then took to the streets as silent witness to post-war life.

Wendy S. Walters 

Anything can become a weapon in America, especially against those who dare to cross the color line.

Alexandra Tolstoy 

From the Review in 1977: When Alexandra Tolstoy’s father died, she was left to manage the literary giant’s ascetic, vegetarian followers

Brianna Zimmerman 

Trying to find the language for the loss of a sibling.

Roger Reeves 

What if we deployed ecstasy in the middle of struggle—even in the middle of the grief of protesting police brutality?

Victoria Kornick 

The law of entropy and life as a fill-in employee, and girlfriend.

Alex Golshani 

“It’s more dangerous now. I’m seeing a lot more aggression from the police.”

Michael G. Cooke  

Yale’s first Black professor on the presence or absence of names, their status and their scope. From the Spring 1977 edition of The Review.

Thornton Wilder 

In 1941, Thornton Wilder visited a nation in crisis, witnessing a remarkable and strange resolve. From the Autumn 1941 edition of The Yale Review.

I shall never forget that first winter of gasoline rationing

Eve Riehle 

Originally published in the Autumn 1945 edition of The Yale Review.

To read a book well, one should read it as if one were writing it

Virginia Woolf 

Originally published in the Autumn 1926 edition of The Yale Review.

I lost the right to vote and found a new understanding of America

Feisal G. Mohamed 

Being shut out of the central rite of democratic life is an odd feeling at first. 

Jess Row 

Soul-killing, inefficient, and racist to the core, the American commute is deeply wrong

From For Now

Eileen Myles 

I would like to be here, I think I’m here, and the more I write, and the more you read it the more it’s simply a fact.

The 1918 Influenza

Francis Russell

Originally published in the Winter 1958 edition of The Yale Review.

Vita Sackville-West

Originally published in the Autumn 1929 edition of The Yale Review.

On making art and mourning

Sheila Heti 

This is why some artists run away from their lives; because who among us can live forever in our own dream?

What history tells us about the case against Trump

Feisal G. Mohamed 

“Maladministration” is about as charitable a term as one can use to describe the actions of the forty-fifth president. 

Twelve ways of looking at my mother

Emily Bernard 

There was something comforting in the strange promise that our lives are not, in the end, a consequence of chance or even choice, but the indifferent hand of fate at work.

The brother I never knew

Miranda Featherstone 

Your brother, he’d said. He was dead, yes. Was he a brother? If not, what was he?

On sources, revision, and order

Lydia Davis

What makes a piece of writing come into being? I have gradually, over the years, come to see the close parallel between the impulse to translate and the impulse to write something original.

A daughter’s suicide in another country

Carlos Manuel Álvarez, translated by Rahul Bery

Her daughter is lost in a dark and distant kingdom, and she needs someone to rescue her.

When yearning is a pleasure

Sarah Manguso

Longing is itself a pleasure. Sometimes it’s the greater pleasure.

The only ones left alive

Cathy Park Hong 

My daughter was silent in my arms, awake yet absolutely still, as if she sensed that I was summoning every ounce of sobriety not to keel over.

On living in—and losing—a body

Molly McCully Brown 

I don’t have time, I tell him, I have things to do. He shakes his head but gives me the shot and the prescription.

For J. D. McClatchy

Langdon Hammer 

Sandy was a great gossip, a connoisseur of his own and others’ vanities. Yet he was also capable of a breathless idealism about human nature and possibility.