In our latest issue, writers confront the malaise and suspicion of cynicism.

We’ve each written books that feel more personal and intimate to share (particularly at readings) than we expected. . . We both feel naked in front of the classroom, so to speak.

No one escapes, no one is physically invulnerable, we are all prisoners of a cruel chronicity.

Mountains and bears and ice floes are hardly cheap lipstick and pleather jackets, but to a hormone-addled teenager, anything and everything looks like sex.

No one escapes, no one is physically invulnerable, we are all prisoners of a cruel chronicity.

Mountains and bears and ice floes are hardly cheap lipstick and pleather jackets, but to a hormone-addled teenager, anything and everything looks like sex.

Slowly, she begins to sense the presence of all the world’s women in her own body, women who have been wronged by men or society in general. These voices fill her, erasing her own.

[Fühmann’s collection] taps into the depths of the human condition—the grotesque and the intimate, the proud and the petty, the mortal and immortal.

We’ve each written books that feel more personal and intimate to share (particularly at readings) than we expected. . . We both feel naked in front of the classroom, so to speak.

I wanted to see how much I could smuggle into this novel that isn’t necessarily aimed at the kind of readers I’m used to, like my friends or the broader literary community.

Simply existing, writing through doubt and degradation, is a Native way of being in literature.

I have never had any faith in ideas of originality or concrete human identity. Things flow through us. Our work isn’t ours and can’t be.

There are times where the real subject of [Muratov’s] description seems to be not examples of art, places, or even people, but the relatively fleeting moments in between these things, which appear here almost by accident, like bystanders in a Polaroid.

The conflict between realism and its alternatives may still be going strong, but when it comes to the centrality of the protagonist, there’s no conflict, only agreement.

What is genuine love? What is manufactured love? Is there even any sense in distinguishing the two?

Dundy’s novels fit our times well while also existing blissfully without any of this baggage. Her characters are often selfish and reckless, but there’s nothing forced in these stories.

In our latest issue, writers confront the malaise and suspicion of cynicism.

It’s a mistake to place the classic authors on a pedestal, but also to ignore their problematic histories to glorify the present.

In the immortal and ominous words of Prince Buster, “Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think.”

“The Ostrich is the Key for the Future Development of all Mankind!”