Is literature political? How about can literature use activists? If they are people too, I guess it can.
The story of Saint John’s Abbey Church is thus a kind of creation myth: an origin story that illustrates the advent of a new symbolic language, formed by the dialogue between liturgical and architectural forces, and forged for an uncertain moment of rapidly-emerging modernity.
The shadow plane
points perilously
in the direction of
human love.
Mattia’s unafraid of repetition; she knows it constitutes us and forms our habitus, and that it also creates structure for other, less visible parts embedded around its scaffold—repetition as performance of self, something you wake up and enact every day.
The forms demand to be reckoned with. Reverb, a new project of St. Louis artists and curators, works on these themes. Inside Bunker 3, artists confront the site’s history of violence and explore the disturbed state of the forest.
There’s a line that says, “my mother looked better alive.” I was having a conversation with Donald and “we look better alive” just kind of spilled off my tongue.
Reason 2. Your brother is already married.
If I am going to get into your family, it’s
going to have to be through you.
Heather McCalden wants me to write about my dead father because she wants every reader of The Observable Universe, her scattered, shrewd, and heartbreaking debut, to write about their dead parents.
I used to chug margaritas at nightclubs and whisper to blonde women. I was a large man and the mirror caused pain. I was married at the time, which makes these memories doubly shameful.
When I am sitting up in bed, which I often do, I think in terms of submersion, as if I fell through the floor.
His voice bends and gurns beneath their insuperable burden and yet can only articulate its ignominy since it finds furrowed in each caesura a clinamen: an irreducible chink in its cage that may turn its convulsions into a tarrying.