From For Now
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
Originally published in the Winter 1958 edition of The Yale Review.
Originally published in the Autumn 1929 edition of The Yale Review.
On making art and mourning
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
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
Your brother, he’d said. He was dead, yes. Was he a brother? If not, what was he?
On sources, revision, and order
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
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
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.
“When you make a photograph,” she said, “it is very much a picture of your own self.”
A Painter’s Letters Home
When the reason for the city is safety, it becomes a fortress against those deemed unworthy of its protection.
Oana Sanziana Marian
Before there’s an anxiety, there’s an excitement of influence.
Peter Matthiessen’s Bigfoot
Peter had told almost no one about his fascination with Bigfoot.
Giovanni Gioviano Pontano
Ostentation sets itself head on against this truth which is involved with conversation, civil intercourse, and the life of men.
Fortunately, the number of American novels starring intermarriages is growing. But has art caught up with life? Yes and no.
Listening to Opus 110
How is it that the work of art, when I arrive at a new understanding of it, having chased down yet another horizon of meaning, is already there waiting for me, meaning what it has always meant…
Ann Petry’s The Street and The Narrows
There is no novel more satisfying to teach in the age of #MeToo than The Street.
“An Occasion” for Thin[g]king
Ashbery’s enthusiasm for Stein’s collecting instincts seemed initially to eclipse his appreciation for her poetry.
A society that seems to have lost interest in myth is a society in ignorance of its effect.
Excerpts from In Remembrance of Things Past
If I had my way I would’ve used the photo booth almost exclusively for portraiture
We had developed a signal to let each other know when all was well: two rings followed by silence. Now, after three rings, I picked up.
Nan Z. Da
Sometimes you are shown something, and it goes right to your heart like poison.
Life cannot make sense as life without death. Only a finite life can make sense as a life.
They had been judged to have committed crimes. But what kinds of choice did they have in that?
Thomas Pynchon’s “The Secret Integration” and The Saturday Evening Post
Pynchon uses the form of an apparently simple, entertaining adolescent boys’ story to engage and then to manipulate the Post readers.
Not every exasperated petty bourgeois could have become Hitler, but a particle of Hitler is lodged in every exasperated petty bourgeois.