Jim watched the television in the waiting room of Dr. Mallory’s office while he waited for his test results. Something was playing on a loop on the screen.

Have I just described a typical scene in a Harold Pinter play, or an especially difficult moment of interaction for an autistic person? 

Through intimate narratives, McKenzie profiles the legacies and acculturation experiences of seven third-generation American siblings, the first Wongs to grow up in Beloit.

Art—like laughter—is built on uncovering. Just as clowns, poets and artists display their True Selves in the name of craft.

The lasting impression has not so much to do with what was passed down but with what was obscured.

The show wants to ask: they were decent apples once, so why did they go bad?

Today I'm gonna escape my body in public. I'm gonna ask you to luxuriate in a sound that feels like a fabric and drool and baby, tell me that's not home? Talk wrong and call that praise.

There are differences, complications, but at their core, these viruses are simply showing us, over and over, what needs to change.

Using serious modes and channels to critique writers like Franzen only legitimizes them as serious people to be debated. What better consolation than to shitpost?

Official remedies for the present polycrisis are often couched in market principles. In excavating the troubled history of libertarian exit, though, we can at least better understand what we are up against.

Kawakami reiterates that women can lead a fulfilling life and make fulfilling choices absent of a romantic partner.

This is The West, I think: where fantasy displaces the real for profit. As a transplant to the state of Texas, I have a strange desire to see that displacement, which is why I’ve come here, expecting the Marfa Invitational to bring this phenomenon into stark relief. 

Contrary to no one’s expectations, Emmanuel Carrère has written another book about himself. If you’re just being introduced, this is his fourth or fifth.

The boundaries between what’s true, what’s imagined, and what’s cocreated are as disorienting and disquieting as a buffalo in the living room.

Descartes has long been typecast as the writer of radical separation of mind and body, of rationality above all else—even his contemporaries declared him the murderer of poetry.

It came and went like a dream, as all good things do. 

We are, in both cases, witness to something we ought not to see. In the moment, we are standing where we ought not to stand. In the trespass and the violence, we are the viewers and the participants.

Any definition claims us, and if we define ourselves in turn we accept the claim, project it. A punk does not say, I am a punk, but exists as one.

Since the release of his first novel in 1971, Frederic Tuten has charted a singular course through the comparatively choppy waters of late twentieth-century American belles lettres.

Donald Trump, who won Ohio handily in both 2016 and 2020, tapped into a primal element of the American spirit.