Letters & Essays
Art & Photography
“So what then, day jobs?” “Not in this life.” “What then?” —Pulp Fiction When I was a child and Americans asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I told them, “Famous.” This was enough to elicit laughter from the interrogating adult befo…
In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature. —Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus Theatrical as it is, the cliché of the mad scientist—a wild-haired, goggle-eyed maniac pacing around a laboratory, operating…
My friends are tired. / The ones who are married are tired / of being married. / The ones who are single are tired / of being single.
“Another thing I need to do, when I'm near the end of the book, is sleep in the same room with it. . . . Somehow the book doesn't leave you when you're asleep right next to it.”
This summer, we’re going long and hard. In anticipation of the solstice, the staff of The Paris Review has pulled together a list of anti-beach reads: doorstopper books, dense books, books that will tear a hole in your flimsy beach tote, flip ove…
. . . or somebody’s going to get hurt. / For my sake, however, keep pealing to a minimum. / We’ll need the firewood you can pick up on the shore / of that lake.
Not long ago, I was chatting with an older friend who is a retired engineer and also something of a writer, but not of fiction. When he heard that I had just finished a translation of Madame Bovary, he said something like, “But Madame Bovary has already been translated. Why does there need to be another translation?”
They lived like Shakers, with a slight difference: they didn’t leave anything out, and they didn’t let anyone in.