The Paris Review25 мин. чтения
L. R.
Miriam stood at the bulletin board waiting for it to sprout news, delaying the dust mopping to which she had been unjustly assigned. The Men’s and Women’s Work Distributors allotted Saturday-morning chores to all in the community unblessed with offsp
The Paris Review1 мин. чтения
My Blockchain
Having worn my camouflage for leisure, having fed upon a shale bed’s vapors, having licked my wounds with glacial pleasure, having found out what of a child’s I could own, having known what the child would buy back later, having lectured on gut healt
The Paris Review1 мин. чтения
The story of Aesop’s partnership with The Paris Reviewis one plotted by a deep reverence for the writtenword. Since 2015, we have been proud to offer thisesteemed quarterly for purchase in select stores acrossthe globe and at, inviting cust
The Paris Review15 мин. чтения
FROM Old Actress
Two actors—Diane, a white woman in her mid-to late sixties, and Erin, a Black woman in her late thirties—stand on a bare stage with two chairs: one comfy, one less so. There’s a music stand in front of the comfier chair and an end table with tea thin
The Paris Review1 мин. чтения
Cover: Courtesy of Uman and Nicola Vassell Gallery; photograph by Joseph Perez. Page 16, courtesy of Jeremy Deller; page 32, courtesy of the Frances McCullough papers at Special Collections and University Archives, University of Maryland Libraries; p
The Paris Review2 мин. чтения
Two Poems
I told you the words to it oriole.Now when an ear come say it right. Give the true kiss and there isno more two faces but one stone. Meaning how to hold a thing one lovedand how describe custody. If incantation is nationalsay a nation is a plane of e
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That Is
Kiss the motherthat needs to becomethat needs to needgroundingthat death helps us heave our thoughtsbecome the trying that is trying to becomethe yes that is trying to unify usinto the nothing that is the juttinghelpful greeting that is trying to yea
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The Paris Review
The Paris Review20 мин. чтения
“Who are you playing?” “Gertrude. But only today, I’m just helping—” “Oh, hi, Mama.” I laughed. “You’re Hamlet.” “Yeah.” Wael ran a hand through his hair. His cheeks were a little pink. On the drive with Mariam from Haifa into the West Bank, one of h
The Paris Review1 мин. чтения
What Is It?
For more than thirty years, the Dutch artist Lily van der Stokker has made drawings, wall paintings, and sculptures that explore, often with a disarmingly mordant sense of humor, the mundane but nonetheless pressing realities of her everyday life, in
The Paris Review1 мин. чтения
William of Aquitaine Returns
I’m going to make a poem out of nothing.You and I will be the protagonists.Our emptiness, our loneliness,the deadly boredom, the daily defeats:all these things will go into the poem,which is bound to be short, since theyfit in a few lines, maybe as f
The Paris Review22 мин. чтения
Where Does This Live?
The Roseville Hotel had closed many years ago, and the rooms upstairs had been converted to apartments, but the bar on the ground floor was still called the Roseville Hotel, because everyone was used to the name. One Saturday in January, John James a
The Paris Review38 мин. чтения
The Art of Fiction No. 256
Often, during the course of my interview sessions with Colm Tóibín, which numbered more than a dozen and took place across time zones—he was in Los Angeles, in the Catalan Pyrenees, on the Ballyconnigar coast of his native County Wexford—a disposable
The Paris Review1 мин. чтения
Charity Balls
I had an accident but lived in eleganceon methamphetamines and small stacksof Black Beauty paperbacksand plastic plates of breadand black cherry marmalade.Later, a career of killingtime. And wasting money.But I have always been extraordinarily gifted
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Pos De Chantar M’es Pres Talenz
I am William, who by nature needs to chant triste now, I’ll makethis song from it I’ll no more be a lover not in Poitiers,nor in Limoges. In the second verse, triste I depart in dangerous exile in greatperil I leave my son for the neighbors to cheat.
The Paris Review14 мин. чтения
Uncontrollable, Irrelevant
My sister called me the other day. She wanted to let me know that I had once more been merciless and cruel in my relations with our parents. “They say there’s a lot of anger in you,” she said. “It makes them mad. It hurts their feelings. They think y
The Paris Review11 мин. чтения
A Good Samaritan
It was hot that day, hot for the morning and hot for April and with a stickiness in the air that suggested something had to break. I was headed up the street to ask my neighbor Meech to give me a jump when I heard a scream come from the fourplex next
The Paris Review10 мин. чтения
My brother Eli and I are lying on the couch, both of us nearly asleep, Eli’s toenails gently kneading my neck. I’m raising my throat to their sharpness, wanting him to press in, when from the next room we hear chimes. Then two clangs. Then: “Hello?”
The Paris Review27 мин. чтения
The Art of Poetry No. 112
Driving from Santa Fe’s center to its outskirts, you pass through a wide expanse made vibrant by that particular slant of light Georgia O’Keeffe coveted. Somehow, the sky is more immense here. Hawks circle over dusty fields strewn with yellow-floweri
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Two Poems
I’ve only seen a dead bird up close once. It wasn’t red butblue. I named it Happiness before I buried it. My childfound a few sticks so we could make a cross. We dug a holeand dropped the bird in, along with a few flowers we hadplucked. We didn’t tou
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POLLY BARTON is a translator and writer. Her nonfiction debut, Fifty Sounds, won the 2019 Fitzcarraldo Editions Essay Prize. VICTORIA CHANG is the author of The Trees Witness Everything, Obit, and Dear Memory. She is the poetry editor of The New York
The Paris Review1 мин. чтения
Intimate Relationship
I bought a hatof faux mink furto wear in the war In my hat I sitin my cellarwaiting The enemy’s lateI read his messageson my phone popping openthe jars of strawberry jamlining the cellar walls Like a lovermy enemy sends meflowers, emojis, words of co
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Kolumbo, 1650
It wasn’t wind. It differently burned.My child’s child, a reptile in pumice. A whitethat wasn’t a cloud. Santorini, a blowngasket, disappearing into a future without us.I had no skin. So many nights, I held my wristover coal to cauterize the open vei
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Mating Tango
all day I’ve watched two white mothstrail and braid each other in flightover the pond and grassy run-upto the tree line bright whiteagainst the green-leaved paper birches and beechesthen vanish within a cumuluswaiting to appear again against the unyi
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There Is a Word or Several, Must Be
Breathe these words in all languages before they’re lost, thank you and mean it. The things we take for granted and now have abandoned us. Or will. Water, air, rich earth beneath the rubble, thank you for our daily breath. Give us this day. Exhale th
The Paris Review14 мин. чтения
The Education of Mrs. R.
An adolescent shriek woke her. Cockerels, she thought, cockerels, with a wry twist to the word. She lay in the dark listening. There was no use in covering her head; the screaming still came through. The soloist was suddenly submerged in the chorus.
The Paris Review26 мин. чтения
The Art of Poetry No. 111
My second conversation with Terrance Hayes failed to record properly. The logical response would be to chalk this technical malfunction up to the device itself, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Hayes’s hyperexpressive, all-encompassing energy had inter
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The Readers
Love brought these readers into the worldThe cuplike structuresof their eyes were formedinherited color, and loveand argument must be conducted differently nowthat the sounds through the wallare interpreted, and a gentle relentless pressure has been
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Art Tourism
Just as Jupiter spirited the girl to Crete,this canvas was conveyed over the seaand must surf its contradictions or drown.(It looks like Europa, her pose indiscreet,should tumble onto us pretty heavily;nothing ruffles the bull’s flower crown.) My mem
The Paris Review28 мин. чтения
Do You Belong to Anybody?
In the morning, I received a phone call and was told to board a flight. The arrangements had been made on my behalf. I packed no clothes because my clothes had been packed for me. A car arrived to pick me up. The radio announced traffic due to an acc
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