Your Favorite Writer’s Favorite Writer: On Natalia Ginzburg’s Valentino & Sagittarius

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I remembered almost nothing of the narrators apart from their existence. They existed for me as wallpaper.Still, when a friend said the same to me, I became defensive.

No Measure – Kelly Krumrie

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As the narrator . . . identifies increasingly with their tools, the desert feels more and more like a living being, breathing sand outside its original bounds, germinating and folding blades of grass, unwilling to be captive to . . . humans.

Dao Strom & Jyothi Natarajan

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Each artist has certain currents—underground rivers, let’s imagine—they are attuned to, nourished by or responding to, in communion with. And I think we are each trying to speak in that true/inner/hidden language to others and to the world.

Masquerade – Mike Fu

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Telling your story doesn’t necessarily mean succumbing to the hefty weight of narrativization . . . reality is messy and incoherent—why not make stories that way?

Henry Henry – Allen Bratton

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What’s important about Bratton’s rendering of sex isn’t just that it’s true to life, but that it paints a complex portrait of a person with a dark sexual history.

To Hell With Poets – Baqytgul Sarmekova

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Each story is narrated from a third person ranging from a distant voice to a very close omniscient one . . . Consistent, however, is each character on a journey with no end.

Wendy Call

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I became very interested in how . . . linguistic dynamics played out, and how they related to power, and who had dominance in any given discourse.

Violent Faculties – Charlene Elsby

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Sade’s aristocratic libertines were poised to benefit from all their cruelty, but Elsby’s depiction of this former professor’s cruelty reveals a sort of purposeless, indifferent violence. Cruelty becomes regularized in this world, and that is partly why it is so sickening.

Log Off: Why Posting and Politics (Almost) Never Mix – Katherine Cross

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Can people create meaningful change by posting? Is Twitter bad for politics?

No One Knows Their Blood Type (Excerpt)

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Lately I’ve stopped looking at my father; his body is just another part of the room now, like the bed, the chair, and the window onto the maternity ward.