Alice Beck’s girlfriend had started to forget things. Where she went and what she did. Who she called and what they said.
Reading Dung Kai-cheung’s A Catalog of Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On is like descending into a beautiful fever dream of Hong Kong in the late ‘90s.
I heard it was for the Royes next door, for their daughter’s wedding, possibly a nice little present from the girl’s brother who worked abroad, some construction job in Dubai, or loading trucks in Manila…
The stories bear passionate witness to the suffering and loss of the Covid-19 pandemic, particularly its confusing early days when information was scarce and the internet produced innumerable auguries from sudden prophets of all kinds, from epidemiologists and virologists to that one guy who made a widely shared video explaining how to disinfect groceries.
My uncle, Mario, was two people.
In her new novel, The Visitors, Jessi Jezewska Stevens uses present-tense narration and free-indirect discourse to imagine a dystopian 2008 that looks an awful lot like that turbulent year as it transpired in this universe.
Despite carrying out plenty of research for essays, my previous attempts to write research-rich stories fell short, as I discovered too much research stunted my imagination, made the stories feel like a cold litany of facts.
They know what’s coming when their dad slams the front door. Their eyes squint, they scatter.
For the past decade, Ladette Randolph has illuminated aspects of the human condition in Nebraskan spaces — stoicism in the face of loss, the embrace of hard physical labor, faith as a source of both comfort and subjugation.
I never planned to write this book. It serendipitously grew from the reading for my comprehensive exams in grad school, where I focused on working-class literature.
At least, that’s what she tells Mom and me three weeks after Dad leaves on a shiny September Sunday, nicking the corner of our mailbox as he peels out of the drive, exhaust fumes roaring through the ancient muffler like rocket fuel in his wake.