He’s mopping at his pelvis with a wadded-up tissue, and then he’s mopping her up as well. Already the backs of her thighs are caking up.
Demand for drugs was on the rise, and there was more pussy to be had than ever. Can you blame me for helping to move a little bit of both?
The Iranian writer on the tension between artists and intellectuals, the power of mysticism, and the long-lasting effects of the 1979 revolution.
On the occasion of his second novel, Libyan author Hisham Matar discusses the effect of totalitarianism on personal lives, what makes the novel a great art form, and the Arab Spring.
“What attracts you to the Jews?” Blanca asked her.
To assemble the whole clan—La Fami Colver, as they said in Kreol—was never easy since its members were widely scattered, within the island and abroad.
Egyptian novelist and activist Ahdaf Soueif on when she knew the revolution would succeed, the role Al Jazeera and social networking played, and the irresponsible reporting on Lara Logan’s attack.
There are times when you will do anything to protect a baby.
Life at an empty amusement park: An excerpt from the upcoming novel
An unpublished excerpt, soon to be a film.
The novelist on Goon Squad, the drug-taking intensity of high school kids, and the Gothic novel.
Part 2 of a new translation excerpt of the major South American writer’s novel.
Tonight I’m alone. My cellmate (you’ll know his name some day) is in the infirmary.
The one public phone near the Atarazana slums that didn’t filch your coins. At least not all of them. That soon after hordes were pilgrimaging to it and lining up to dial their departed.
Are American readers insular, as the secretary of the Swedish Academy famously quipped? If so, why has immigrant fiction taken such a pivotal role in American letters? Irina Reyn hashes it out with lauded Bosnian author Aleksandar Hemon.
The Arab is so stunned, he doesn’t move. Just stands there with his certificate and his rusty key. Not breathing.
She was limp and sweaty but I snuggled into the comfortable softness of her. They had cut her open, and she was whole. She looked very tired and sick; on her gown, blood bloomed like a slow flower.
“You must find me very queer then, Madame Clavdia. I’m sorry if I disconcert you,” Tintin said, his voice low, his eyes downcast.