The singer went to Africa, she said, in search of peace, or a husband, or maybe the feeling of home.

I was disgusted with the satellite, disgusted with the image in my mind: a stocky robot, careening embarrassingly into the eternal.

On Bloomsday, reflecting on the famous kiss.

The singular power of portraiture's 20th century master.

The contentious effort to transform a remote Pakistani town into the epicenter of the new world order.

There she is—my beloved. Still in the pullover they’d call a chemise, its color a sweet red they’d call cyclamen, and the voices around us would cut out.

Here comes the hard part, the Land of the Dead / floating just above my head

The essayist on the first person and the end of humanity.

The novelist on Syria, censorship, and the safety—and power—of metaphor.

An excerpt from the forthcoming anthology, edited by Madeleine Witt and Andrew White.