I had felt him in my blood vessels, for he had come to live in me and I had begun to smell like him, and with his eyes…
nobody really owns the wild beast they raise / until they learn to cry
The acclaimed novelist & art critic on dismantling notions of gendered writing, the pleasures of translated texts, and “the clear divide between art and politics” in contemporary American fiction.
Who’s coughing? It’s my throat, that’s all. / Really, no.—I never saw you.
if we have migraines, eczemas, allergies: / day
I lose my mind, you’re without foreskin.
Poet Jaswinder Bolina discusses writing about race, the process of being translated, and more.
Life in East Germany on display in a strange Berlin museum.
Once the bone has been ground up, who, through muslin, would recognize her hand from a dog’s paw?
Not much ever happened in Blaustein, but, even if it did, I would still remember the words she said, because it was the first time I’d heard them used, and their meaning, the parentheses they opened in my German existence every time someone used them, shocked me and made me feel like an intruder.
I thought I had died and that death meant repeating a name forever.
The Paris Review editor on his new translation of That Smell by Sonallah Ibrahim.
Let us legally do what we must do in the dark