POSO WELLS is the sort of dizzying novel that only begins to make sense as it finishes, but then becomes so fascinating that you want to read the hazy first hundred pages all over again.
NEVADA DAYS doesn’t match up to plot-driven works of fiction — despite its sub-plot of sexual assault and murder — because that’s not the kind of fiction Atxaga has written.
Though Kono is absorbed with domestic life, she pushes the conventional limits of realism by exposing the ways in which the rules of domesticity are artificial, provisional, or self-imposed.
The collection conveys a profound honesty about female sexuality that goes beyond a simple defense of sexual freedom to expose the complexities of desire, the body, and psychology.
Without revealing too much, one can simply butcher Chekhov by observing that, if you read a story that mentions corpse oil, you can be pretty sure that it will be used, sooner or later.
To what extent can we indeed plausibly claim to be focusing our attention on the text itself when the context needed to make the text fully intelligible might be missing?
How amazing it is, I thought, while flipping through book after book after book after zine after book, that I am here with THE STOLEN BICYCLE in my backpack, that we are in 2018 and still use paper, ink, and energy to capture, print, and sell random people’s precious moments of the past.