I don’t think it would ever be possible for me to disentangle poetry and friendship in my life—friendship is so central to my composition and editorial process, and poetry is so central to basically all of my relationships.
Who’s Afraid of Gender? – Judith Butler
Like a patient teacher, Butler guides readers through lazy interpretations of science, the bad arguments, and the way leftist language is . . . misused by the right. . . . Those with dog-eared copies of [their] previous . . . books will find this one an easier read.
Alien Daughters Walk into the Sun – Jackie Wang
When Wang writes about wanting to “pollute white space with [her] Brown body,” or that “the task is to blow up language,” she means it.
The Garden of Seven Twilights – Miquel de Palol
The tales and tellers of Palol’s novel compose a meticulous alignment of points and lines, a rigorous intellectual structure resembling the mysterious sculpture in the center of the titular Garden.
Richard Scott Larson & Matt Lee
We often look into a mirror to check our appearance and make sure we’re presenting ourselves the way we want to be seen by others, and the memoir as a mirror allows us to control our self-presentation even as it also involves acknowledging our flaws, the things about ourselves that we can’t ever change.
Closures: Heterosexuality and the American Sitcom – Grace Lavery
Lavery, as a queer theorist, resists and problematizes the sitcom’s implicit assumption of the automatic goodness of marriage and family ties.
Blue Notes – Anne Cathrine Bomann
Blue Notes is no quiet meditation on grief: it’s a well-paced and highly readable medical thriller.
Hjorth reworks that old aphorism: unhappy stories are all alike. It’s the ones that eke out a kind of happiness that set themselves apart.
I don’t know how I would feel if I read myself as a character in someone else’s work. It must be—what’s that feeling? Disorienting, maybe.
When it comes to indie music in Zagreb and Belgrade . . . those times were truly inspired. It was great to have a front row seat to all that . . .