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What’s Never Said: An Interview with Susan Shapiro

BG-Interview-1Bob Dylan said hearing Elvis Presley for the first time was like breaking out of jail. Walking into Sue Shapiro’s New School class was a little like that. She was passionate, effusive, and within minutes had extracted dark embarrassing moments from my past for her infamous first assignment: write about your most humiliating secret. I felt lucky to be one of the 15,000 students to study with her, in both my undergraduate and graduate programs, where she practically ensured that we all get published. Reading her new autobiographical novel What’s Never Said, is a captivating take on how we communicate, or miscommunicate, and how the words unspoken can imprison us.

What’s Never Said is about her own school days as an MFA student in New York and the romantic relationship with a professor who was her mentor thatshe freely admitshaunted her for three decades. It’s the story she says she couldn’t write until now, and it seems a perfect time for this outrageously honest story.


Susan Marque: What was your motivation for this novel?

Susan Shapiro: I always tell my students to write about their obsessions. And a female mentor of mine told me “You write best about people you love,” which inspired my first book “Five Men Who Broke My Heart.” Because that was a memoir, I was limited in scope. I hoped writing a novel about passion gone wrong would be as fun and entertaining, but that fictionalizing would allow me to go deeper and crazier. I always say I’m a raging feminist who loves men and marriage. Being in therapy has really helped me be happy in work and in love, for almost 25 years now. Students have pointed out that a lot of my shrink’s wisdom is laced throughout the book. Daniel tells Lila that poetry is about what’s left out, what never gets said. I guess what intrigued me most was how two heroes, Lila and Daniel, never tell their spouses the truth of what happened between them, and they spend their life obsessed with words but completely miscommunicate everything.

SM: Like your character Lila, you have your MFA from New York University. So is What’s Never Said a love letter to your past?

SS: In some ways, yes. I love poetry, studied and wrote it for years. But I was a failed poet. I really did have a mentor who told me “You have too many words, not enough music.” He loved my memoirs and said “there’s more poetry in your prose than in your poems.” I liked the idea of a memoirist writing fiction about poetry.

SM: Central to What’s Never Said is a secret relationship with a professor that you had. With your experience now, as a college professor, how do you feel about student-teacher relationships that take place outside of the classroom?

SS: By the time I started teaching in my thirties, I was already with my husband, so I never dated a student. Romantic relationships are hard enough without having a power imbalance. Through teaching on the graduate level and adult education, I have lots of work connections and friendships outside of the classroom with former students. I actually think it helps.

They say you should write the book you want to read and teach the class you want to take. I didI wrote a book called “Only As Good as Your Word: Writing Lessons From my Favorite Literary Gurus” about my evolution, learning how to make a living as a writer. And I call my classes the “instant gratification takes too long” methodwhere the goal is to publish a great piece by the end of the class. I try to be a liaison in the real world, introducing my students to editors and agents who could help them get out there. My favorite teachers and mentors helped me navigate the real world outside of the classroom. Luckily I have great role models to emulate.


SM: The chapters in your book switch from past to present. How did you decide about time and what effect does that have on the experience of the story?

SS:They have a clear chronological sequence. Originally it started and ended in 2010 and the rest told the storyin orderin the 1980’s. But then a book editor my age told me she missed Lila’s older voice for 250 pages. So I added two older chapters in the middle. In my last coauthored book, “The Bosnia List,” we switched back and forth in time every chapter. So I thought that was an interesting way to add drama/conflict/tension.

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If The River Drops


We wonder if those fatal river rocks appeared to you as they appear to us—like molars from the mouths of giants. Your first name is Meredith, and your last name is something German-sounding that we quickly forgot. From the banks near Paradise Lodge, some of us spot the dull lampglow of your life jacket under the green and white-beaten water. Through binoculars, we watch your pale fingers curl against the current, inviting us all down to share your watery grotto and hear about what all you saw on the river that afternoon—an osprey, maybe, cutting helices under the crackling June sun, just before your kayak nosed into the rocks, tilting you and your wide-waisted crewmate into the drink.

Your friend was too rattled to linger at the lodge. We never caught her name, but rumor has it that you were helping her escape the rocks, and well, you know the rest. A tired irony, if it’s true. Who are you really, Meredith? Do you regret that selfless gesture? Is it embarrassing, having surrendered to water so shallow that sunbeams dazzle the glittery green polish on your toenails? Maybe you’re feeling good and mellow down there, watching flow patterns warp the surface, buoyant summer clouds riding egglike overhead. There must’ve been final words, but they belong to the river. Maybe you bubbled out something stoic, like, Here’s a fitting place to die, or maybe something more citric, like, Truly no good deed goes unpunished, you selfish fuckers. We wonder about these things, Meredith. You mean something down there under all that water. A protest to the obstinance of stone.

Rescue teams have tried to reach you from the rocks, the water, and the air, but it’s no use. Gorged with snowmelt, the Rogue runs too fiercely, and those rocks won’t let go. The Coast Guard say they’ll only recover live victims, and the sheriff says it’s a narrow canyon, not the kind of place to bring a helicopter. He says we have to let nature take its course.

Some of the youngsters at Paradise Lodge are still crying, but the older children haven’t cried at all, they’ve just gone quiet, matured by the gurgling river, and what it has taken from you. They’ve seen you loitering down there, our lady of the water, hair ink-loose in the current. Could’ve been one of us. In a way, it’s sort of beautiful how your body contains some small measure of the same water that contains you. Bodies within bodies, one swallowing the other. You’ve upset our lives, Meredith, or at least our weekend.

Know that you’re not alone, though the knowing won’t keep you warm. We’re told that earlier this month, a man from Coos Bay drowned along that same snarl of rocks. He sulked down there for a couple of days before the bloating worked him loose. You’ll inflate in much the same way, then you’ll bob to the surface, your belly a pale balloon. After you’re gone, the river will find a fresh pair of lungs to fill, and folks at Paradise Lodge will have another name to forget.


Nickalus Rupert holds an MFA from the University of Central Florida. Currently, he is a first-year PhD candidate at the University of Southern Mississippi. His fiction appears or is forthcoming in PANK, The Pinch, Night Train, WhiskeyPaper, and elsewhere.


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Two Poems: Baby of the Mistaken Hue & It Creeps Back In



From our Memory Issue, two poems by Patricia Smith.


Baby of the Mistaken Hue


Baby of the mistaken hue, child of the wrong nose

with its measure unleashed, baby of the nappy knot,

I am your mother. Mad at your whole damned face,

I swear to the task of torching the regrettable Delta

from your disobeying braids. I pinch your breathing

shut to reteach the bone, smear guaranteed cream

on your pimpled forehead, chin, and cheeks. I am

the corrector. Soaking a kitchen towel with the blaze

of holy water, I consider just what you are naked,

recoil at the insistent patches of midnight blanketing

your skin and I scrub, scrub, push the hard heel

of my hand deep into the dark, coax cleansing

threads of blood to the stinging surface, nod gently

in the direction of your Mama, don’t! I command

you to bend, to turn, to twist in the wobbly dinette

chair and reveal what hides from me, those places

on you that still insist on saying Negro out loud.

Remember how the nonbelievers screeched their

nonbelief at Jesus even as He laid His giving hands

upon them? One day you will comprehend the torch

I am. You will be burned smaller, lighter, ever closer

to the whiteness of my God, who loves you as you are.




It Creeps Back In


And before I can focus, before I can remember

my exercises, I’m gulping gin and warm water,

I’m standing in front of an open Frigidaire spraying

butter into my mouth. In the bathroom, I brush

dead hair into the sink, stare hard at blackheads

and bleeding gums. I thought this had been healed

every Tuesday: And are you still sleeping all day?

Taking your pills on schedule? The blue ones?

They say depression can’t be ignored, so I nurture

the drunkenness, say hello to pink rituals of throat.

Wiggling a finger inside myself, I’m wooed by the ghost

of current. September whispers I still need you.

It lies in the voice of a mother.


Patricia Smith is the author of five books of poetry, including Blood Dazzler, a finalist for the 2008 National Book Award, and Teahouse of the Almighty, a National Poetry Series selection. Her work has appeared in Poetry, the Paris Review and TriQuarterly, among other publications, and she has received a Pushcart Prize.  


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The Scamp: An Interview with Jennifer Pashley

 BG-Interview-1Debut novelist Jennifer Pashley talks about serial killers, Tori Amos, and listening in this Q&A with her editor.


Meg Storey: Place plays a huge role in The Scamp. Can you talk a little about how you chose where to set the book?

Jennifer Pashley: Well, like Rayelle, I grew up somewhat on the road. My family road tripped a lot, often in the country, always staying at roadside motels. So the feel of the rural South is very real to me. It’s stark and beautiful, even in its poverty and disrepair. Trailer parks and cemeteries have always spoken the loudest to me. There are stories there.

MS: Were there any books or movies that influenced the work?


JP: There was definitely music that influenced me while writing it, and that’s usually the case for me. The Scamp grew out of some crazy combination of Tori Amos and Miranda Lambert, which is the kind of thing I was more tempted to say when describing it to people than to compare it to other books or authors. And I mean those two pretty equally. There’s a cross section in this book of both:

Bring them all here
Hard to hide a hundred girls in your hair
__________Tori Amos, “Cloud on My Tongue”


I’m goin’ home, gonna load my shotgun
Wait by the door and light a cigarette
If he wants a fight well now he’s got one
And he ain’t seen me crazy yet
_________Miranda Lambert, “Gunpowder and Lead”

MS: It’s rare to have a female serial killer in a work of fiction. What kind of research did you do to inhabit Khaki’s mind?

JP: I read some psychological studies of psychopaths. I was curious about how the psychopathic mind works, its lack of empathy. I also read (more than once, actually) Ann Rule’s book The Stranger Beside Me, about Ted Bundy, because it’s a fantastic account of both psychopathy and extreme violence. It’s also a beautiful narrative. It’s a great book.


MS: Who are some of your favorite fictional serial killers?

JP: Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, for his abject psychopathy, and his beauty regimen. The Vampire Lestat, for completely different reasons. Because Lestat is, I think, one of the most sympathetic villains ever. He’s right up there with Humbert Humbert.

MS: The Scamp touches on issues of class, domestic violence and abuse, incest, and motherhood. What do you most want readers to get from the book?

JP: This is a really difficult question. I think there’s a feeling of transcendence that I hope readers get. The idea that you can transcend a relationship that harms you. That you can love someone who has the potential to kill you. That those things aren’t mutually exclusive. These relationships are more complicated than a black-and-white abuser/abused. There’s complicity on both sides.

MS: You’ve published two story collections. Did The Scamp grow out of a short story?

JP: No, it didn’t. It has always been a novel, since the very beginning.

MS: What are you working on now?

JP: I’m always working on something. Right now, a novel is speaking to me. I’m trying to listen.


Raised in Syracuse, New York, by an accordion virtuoso and a casket maker, Jennifer Pashley is the author of two short story collections, States and The Conjurer. Her stories have appeared widely, in journals like Mississippi Review, PANK, and SmokeLong Quarterly, and she has been awarded the Red Hen Prize for Fiction, the Mississippi Review Prize for fiction, and the Carve Magazine Esoteric Award for LGBT Fiction.





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The Tin House Podcast: Making Sense of the Sentence, with Christopher R. Beha


As millions of you eagerly await the September rollout of our 2015 Summer Writers’ Workshop Lectures, we thought it the perfect hour to revisit the ghosts of workshops past with Christopher R. Beha’s “Making Sense of the Sentence.”

First given during our 2012 Summer Workshop, and later anthologized in The Writer’s Notebook II (as “Do Something”), Beha “looks into the work that the best type of sentences do, examining how they play within their paragraphs, and how that interplay influences the story as a whole.”




Christopher R Beha is a deputy editor at Harper’s Magazine. His essays and reviews have appeared in the New York Times Book Review, The London Review of Books, The Believer, Bookforum, and elsewhere. He is the author of two novels, Arts & Entertainments and What Happened to Sophie Wilder, and a memoir, The Whole Five Feet. He is also the co-editor, with Joyce Carol Oates, of the Ecco Anthology of Contemporary American Short Fiction. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife.

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Issue #65: Theft

“Talent borrows, genius steals” is usually attributed to Oscar Wilde, and occasionally Pablo Picasso. There is, however, no record of either one actually saying or writing this. T. S. Eliot, on the other hand, wrote, “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.”

Theft and appropriation have always been artistic engines. In this issue, Kevin Young—poet, essayist, and anthologist—looks at how thievery is done well (Bob Dylan) and not so well (Jonah Lehrer). Mary Ruefle and Erika Meitner demonstrate the art of erasure, turning extant texts into ready-made poetry. Thievery of property and the ultimate transgression, the theft of a life, have spurred the great ones from Homer to Shakespeare to Fitzgerald. Here, Victor LaValle remembers the time he played at being a teen runaway in Times Square. Pulitzer Prize winner Adam Johnson returns to our pages, and to Korea, with his story “Fortune Smiles,” in which North Korean expat grifters try to navigate the laws and mores of Seoul.


We sent out a call for short essays about memorable thefts, and it is an honor to have the call answered by the doyen of crime writers, Mary Higgins Clark, alongside Alissa Nutting, George Singleton, and Laura Lippman. Clark reminds us that, in Shakespeare’s words, “The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief.” Enjoy.

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The Human Heart in Conflict with a Terrifying Mutated Version of Itself: An Interview with Lincoln Michel

BG-Interview-1Writers who came to mind while reading stories in Lincoln Michel’s debut collection Upright Beasts included Kit Reed (“Our Education”) and William Gay (“Little Girls by the Side of the Pool”) and Franz Kafka’s “Letter to His Father” (too many to neatly fit between these parentheses). That said, there are literary and extraliterary sensibilities here that defy these superficial comparisons. The book is terribly funny and terribly sad, often simultaneously. I particularly enjoyed the way the collection works as a whole, like a great album you can put on start to finish.

Michel is founding editor of the journal Gigantic and co-editor of the anthology Gigantic Worlds. He’s also the online editor for Electric Literature. I’ve never met him, but I’ve admired his work for quite a while and published one of his stories when I was an editor at Monkeybicycle. He answered these questions via e-mail in early August.


Andrew Ervin: You have some truly spectacular opening lines here. “The children erect a gallows out of desks, cardboard, and ribbon.” “Or take the day my father handed me his glass of lemonade and reached for the rifle.” Is that how you begin writing a new story? Walk me through the process.

Lincoln Michel: First off, thank you. There are definitely times when a story spools out from a single sentence. In fact, the story in my collection that you published, “Routine,” is a good example. I had the opening sentence (“This morning I murder your mother, but then I always murder your mother”) lodged in my head before I even knew it would be a zombie story. I just kept thinking of that sentence until a story came. That said, I’m surprised when writers say they have a set routine for writing a story, because mine come to me in different and unpredictable ways. Sometimes it is a sentence, sometimes a concept, sometimes a structure, sometimes a voice. The story might be almost entirely formed in my head before I write, or it might radically change during the writing.

I am always interested in sentences though, and strongly distrust writers and readers who talk about how the sentences don’t matter only the characters or plot or ideas do. They say caring about sentences makes you some elitist literary snob. No, sentences and words are the building blocks of fiction. That’s what fiction is made of. So I think writers need to pay attention to sentences just like a director pays attention to shots or a painter pays attention to colors. The opening couple sentences in particular set the tone for the reader, and for me, at least, they set the tone for my writing. So most of the time, no matter how a story starts, I work on the opening sentences until I’ve figured out what the tone and style will be.


AE: How do you know when a story is finished?

LM: I wish I had something smart to say about that, but I think I just work on them until they feel right. There seems to be two common poles here. The first is the “fiction is never finished, only abandoned” camp (variations of that quote are attributed to Valéry on poetry and da Vinci on paintings) that believes you can work on something forever and it is finished only when you more or less arbitrarily decide to move on. Then there is the idea that a work can be made perfect, or near perfect, at least to the artist’s tastes and abilities. I remember reading someone say that you know a story is finished when you go through and remove all the punctuation, then do another draft and put all the punctuation back in the exact same place. When you can’t even think of an edit to make. Of those poles, I’m closer to the former, especially if the story is longer than a page or two, and I’m always thinking about different paths that a story could take. And I will say that I think there is a real danger to giving young artists the idea that everything should be “perfect” and “polished” in a story. I want some messiness in my art, some chaos in the style and roughness in the sentences. Overly polished work tends to feel inert on the page, and I think we all want our fiction to be weird and alive.

AE: In an interview, Richard Powers once said:

“I have always tried to write my personal landmarks directly into my books in some way, if not in an acknowledgments page, then by some quotation or homage or identifiable theft that brands the book’s indebtedness. So all those allusions or references: those are the people I’d like somehow to pay back.”

You have a character here named Lispector. To whom else are you indebted?

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RIP Lesley Gore


Lesley Gore has a good voice, my grandpa said. Shame about her face, though.

Where did I get the idea that things were better back then? Probably from my Pappy. The joke about old people goes that they don’t know how to program the VCR and can’t ever learn but Pappy loved videos, video stores, rewinding credits to see who played Lana Gondolier or who did her makeup. Who cares, that’s what I think. One time we watched a movie and it didn’t even have credits, that’s how long ago it was made.

Our video store rented regular movies but also TV shows, Christmas pageants, bootleg concerts, and porno. A lot of times we’d watch the shows my grandpa watched in the 40s and 50s, a lot of times he’d say they were crap. Shows about small-town, freckle-faced boys but nothing you’ve ever even heard of, not like Lassie. Not the Andy Griffith Show either. Shows whose names reminded you of expired candy, like Okey Dokey. And when we finished he’d look at the tape sadly and say, I used to love this piece of shit show.

One time we rented a concert movie from the ‘60s: early black-and-white ‘60s not Woodstock ‘60s. I always worried Pappy would say something racist but all he said was how long it takes black women to do their hair, and how all the black guys started playing music in prison. Which, for Pappy, is pretty good: he didn’t say anything about Smokey Robinson being mixed race, which surprised me. In fact he liked the movie okay, and you can tell because he’ll tell you everything about it, down to the aspect ratio. Then he complained how no one plays guitar that well anymore, how no one sings that well, and sometimes I thought he might be right. He was right maybe half the time, the other half the time he was racist or mad.

After Marvin Gaye came Lesley Gore, who sings, “It’s My Party.” Pappy said, she must be pretty good to follow Marvin Gaye. Then he pointed out that Lesley Gore is not conventionally attractive. First, she is overweight, maybe fatter than me. Second, her clothes do not flatter her. Third, she has a square face and a too-big nose. Then he told me about how the Greeks had golden ratios for women just like they had for buildings. And if Lesley Gore was a building, she’d fall down. She’d be condemned and boarded up and then demolished.

But she was only seventeen. She’s also the only white person on the show who sings with so much soul it’s almost like anger. Is that what confidence is, I wondered, the sound of a saxophone at the same time? I’d like to make a musical where I sang that way to everyone who’d ever been unkind to me. I’d invite all my teachers to the premiere and my sister would be front row, very important person. That’s all I am, is spiteful. Lesley Gore is good at thanking the audience and smiling, like she’s happy to be there and not the ringleader of some schadenfreude circus. The way she’s done her eyes, with white eyeliner and black mascara, the only word I know for it is mesmerizing, especially when she lowers her lids and sings, “You Don’t Own Me.”

Did you know she turned out queer? Pappy said. I mean she was already pretty butch back then, but you would have thought she’d marry one of the Beach Boys or something.

Then he didn’t say anything and I didn’t either. We shared an inevitable silence, tense with follow-up questions neither of us wanted to ask. What’s butch and what age does someone turn out queer. Whenever Pappy described someone as queer it was like they’d failed a grade and been kept back. I knew he thought I must be gay, in fact the thing neither of us would admit was that I looked a lot like Lesley Gore, except of course my hair. My hair only flipped like that when I used a curling iron.

We watched Lesley Gore, the singing lesbian, and meditated on her big hair, not saying any of this out loud. I wondered if Lesley Gore ever met another lesbian backstage, or was she just sandwiched between Diana Ross and Darlene Love, feeling strange and overlarge. And how complicated her heartbreak must have been, when she got dumped, at her birthday party or at the movies. How alone she must have felt, and all the time. She didn’t sing sad and lonely, but I felt that way, watching her.

She had a good voice, my grandpa said. Shame about her face, though.



Flannery Cashill is an artist and writer who lives and works in Kansas City, MO.

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Lost and Found: Alexander Chee On Julian May

BG-Lost-and-Found1From Issue 54, speculative fiction’s blast from the past.


On Julian May’s Saga of the Pliocene Exile Tetralogy


In the origin story of my favorite science fiction novels, Julian May attended a party in 1976 at a science fiction convention in Los Angeles, dressed in a jewel-encrusted space suit she’d made herself. At the time, she was a forty-five-year-old professional writer from West Linn, Oregon, just outside Portland, the author of thousands of science encyclopedia entries and two hundred and fifty nonfiction books for adults and children. But she had also written and published two science fiction short stories early in her career, her first when she was nineteen, as well as a few Buck Rogers comics, and she hadn’t let go of science fiction just yet.

I keep spinning this image of her in the suit in my mind—as, apparently, did she. The space suit turned out to be cosplay for a series she had yet to write. After the convention, she returned home to West Linn and plotted the four novels that became the Pliocene Exile Tetralogy.

I found the tetralogy twenty-five years later, at a used-book store in Iowa City.

I was a student at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop looking for a thrill. The book I found first was The Golden Torc, the second in the Saga. At the time, the series had been out of print for years, and so all of my copies of her novels have “3.00” penciled onto the first page and all were purchased there. I remember it impressed me that May had used, for an epigraph, “The Threshold,” a poem by my favorite philosopher, Simone Weil. This surprised and intrigued me, as I hadn’t known that Weil wrote poems. I’d met a new writer and a new favorite writer both, in one page.


The story born from May’s jeweled suit begins on September 21, 2013, when Earth is saved from the edge of nuclear holocaust and environmental catastrophe by a coalition of the universe’s five dominant alien races, called “The Galactic Milieu.” The Milieu first fosters humanity’s latent psychic gifts—these being the passport to this congress—and then provides new technology that allows an overcrowded Earth population to colonize seven hundred nearby planets. By 2021, when a French physicist discovers a one-way time tunnel 6,000,000 years into Earth’s past—anything that tries to return ages 6,000,000 years on the trip—those alienated by the new intergalactic utopia see it as a perfect underground railroad into the Pliocene.

May draws her characters from two groups that pass through and find their dreamed-of, alien-free Pliocene paradise in the hands of human-type alien exotics, exiles from another galaxy, a race divided into two ethnic types living in a recognizably medieval style and permanently at war in a battle religion that ritualizes their hatred. Half of them, the Tanu, look remarkably like elves; the other half, the Firvulag, like dwarves. Both sides possess the paranormal abilities common to the Milieu our human refugees fled. On top of all this, the Tanu are becoming infertile and increasingly need the arriving human females in order to breed. All of them wear armor born from May’s science fiction convention outfit.

This was the most confident reinvention of the known world and its cultures I’d encountered in years, an alternate history/science-fiction masterpiece with a fantasy novel coating, stocked somehow with everything, ever: magic, spaceships, alien colonies, elves, dwarves, knights, time travel, psychic powers, castles—and love in headdresses, to boot. May had plunked it all into the particle accelerator of her mind and out came psychic powers organized into guilds with their own gang colors and territories and political squabbles; living spaceships with spouse pilots; elves and dwarves from across the galaxy; rebel humans plotting to return to the Earth of the future and take it back from the aliens, but perhaps only after doing it in the past first; and half-human hybrids, their future uncertain as the ethnic purists eye their growing numbers.


I quickly read The Golden Torc, then found and devoured the first book of the tetralogy, The Many-Colored Land, and the third and fourth, The Nonborn King and The Adversary, and then the rest of May’s work, including the six prequel-sequel novels to these four. By now, I wasn’t just addicted to the world she’d created; I was in awe of her narrative powers: she was the only writer I knew who could put fifteen or so characters down on a landscape and move among them, compellingly. She had queer characters—and central ones, for that matter—something I didn’t often see in science fiction. May was not only writing about the future but also, ahead of her time, like Ursula K. Le Guin, creating complex characters of mixed race, sometimes many genders, and complex sexual and affectional tendencies.

More impressively, across these ten books, May builds an intricate virtuosic narrative payoff, and when the singular penny drops on what she’s done, it’s indescribable. I can think of no sustained fictional effort like it—and certainly not one that extends for nearly five thousand pages. When I reached the end of the other six novels, I was ready to return to the first four, and did. I’ve since reread them all at least four times.

Over the years, I’ve met only a few fellow fans of hers—the writers Chris Adrian and Jon Michaud are actually the only ones I know of—and yet I know we are out there, and are about to expand our numbers: It’s now 2012, the year before the Galactic Intervention May imagined that started it all off, and Houghton Mifflin Harcourt has brought the Pliocene Exile tetralogy back to readers in e-book format (complete with the original 1980s artwork). The series has been optioned for film and is in active development.

I sometimes hope that the books are all true, dictated to her from the future, and that next year aliens will intervene and save us from ourselves, and in 2021, a French physicist will discover the time tunnel. Perhaps. One way or another, her era begins now.


Alexander Chee is the author of the novels Edinburgh and The Queen of the Night, forthcoming from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt in February of 2016. He is a recipient of a 2003 Whiting Award, a 2004 NEA Fellowship in prose and a 2010 MCCA Fellowship, and residency fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, the VCCA, Civitella Ranieri and Amtrak. His essays and stories have appeared in The New York Times Book Review, Tin House, Slate, GuernicaNPR and Out, among others. He has taught writing at Wesleyan University, the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Columbia University, Sarah Lawrence College and the University of Texas – Austin. He was the Visiting Writer at Amherst College from 2006-2010 and the Picador Professor at The University of Leipzig in 2012. He lives in New York City.

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The Scamp: An Excerpt


one : Rayelle

One of the twins has his mouth sewn shut. He drinks gin from a rocks glass through a skinny cocktail straw. His brother, beer from the tap. There are only four people in the bar and most of them are related—cousins, brothers, twins. Everyone, except me, and the bartender.

Behind the bar, a string of Christmas lights, multicolored and blinking, still hanging in June, above the top shelf of bottles. I watch the pattern, waiting for the regularity of a heartbeat, an even space between on and off, but it’s erratic. The door is open to the parking lot and a low evening sun, leaving a hot stripe on the black floor. I had driven out of the trailer park in a huff, windows down, radio blasting, fifty, sixty miles, almost to West Virginia. I stopped when I saw the rural Quonset hut bar, two cars and a dust devil in the parking lot. Dead on a Monday night.

A big woman who looks under thirty at the opposite end of the bar tells me about the twins’ accident. How they slid in the rain and the car launched into a field. One had to kick out the windshield to save the other. Out here, the roads slick with pebbles, raining down the mountain onto the road in a storm. It’s like driving on marbles.

He’d written their names in blood on the inside of the driver’s side window, in case they couldn’t get out. Brady and Jamie Wilkes. Like a premature headstone.

They might have been identical, but they weren’t anymore. Brady’s jaw was wired. Jamie’s wrist was broken.

You ever heard of such a thing? she asks me.

I have and I haven’t. Freak accidents happen all the time. A car off the road, a rock slide, a drowning. I ask the bartender for a whiskey sour. Two cherries. No orange.

He’s over fifty, looks ex-military in his haircut, his straight spine and precise movements, and his arms are sleeved with dense, colored tattoos. He makes the drink in a highball glass and lays it on a black napkin, then goes back to buffing beer glasses.

I sip and hand it back to him. Stronger, I say.

I guess you do what you have to, the woman says, for your siblings. She’s wearing a tank top, her shoulders padded and fleshy, her skin loose above the elbow.

I don’t have any siblings, I say.

Or your kids, she adds.

Or kids, I say.


I left because it was my birthday, and my mother asked me if I wanted a pool party. I think she thought it was funny, thought maybe now was the time to laugh about it and get over it. But I was turning twenty-three by myself, without a husband or a baby when I’d been well on the way to having both. I wanted her to shut up.

When I showed my license to the bartender, he said, Well, happy birthday to you, sweetheart.

I nearly put my head down and cried.


The one twin waves to the bartender for another gin. The TV plays a black-and-white movie with a lot of scenes with a man and a woman driving a car. The man, in a hat. The woman, blonde, and polished. The scenery behind them, trees, a long road in the country.

Earlier, I’d thought about careening off the road. About my Escort, with its rotting floorboards and bald tires. I wouldn’t have kicked my way out of a car that went flying. I wouldn’t have kicked my way out of anything. Instead, I imagine lying there still, broken. The breathing of a cornfield around me.

The woman at the other end says, Don’t drink ’til you puke, Brady, and laughs. That won’t be fun.

He shakes his head, slow. I wonder how much it hurts.

She hoists herself off the stool and rubs each of the twins’ shoulders as she goes past. I gotta get my kids, she says. Good night, Gil, she says to the bartender, and leans forward, pushing her boobs together, to kiss his cheek. On her legs, light capris that are tight below the knee, her calves blossoming out below.

You had dinner? Gil asks me.

I ask him to hold the sour and just give me a double bourbon. Two cherries.

No, I say. You got anything?

Not tonight, he says. He leans back on the register, a mirror behind shows his crew cut, thick all the way through, wiry and gray. Above the mirror, a pair of deer antlers with bright turquoise panties hanging on them. Where you from? he asks.

The twins play a miniature-sized game of checkers, the mute one stacking up his black king.

South Lake, I say.

That’s quite a ways, he says. He takes a glass out of a steaming tub under the bar and works at it with two towels, one in, one out. You got family out here? he asks.

I think about my mother, in South Lake, sitting at the end of a bar called the Coop, waving on another gin and tonic. No one would be there either. Just the bartender and my mother, baseball on TV, but muted.

And Chuck, stomping through the trailer, picking up the mail, a newspaper, the empties we left behind.

No, I say.

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Posted in Fiction, Tin House Books

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Mapping the Psyche: A Conversation Between Jessica Hendry Nelson & Jill Talbot

BG-Interview-1I met the writer Jill Talbot in the spring of 2013 in upstate New York, at a university where she was teaching and I was the visiting writer. I felt an immediate kinship. She was smart, lucid, and warm. (Far as I know, that estimation still stands.) We ate at a corner café with a few of her adoring students and talked about the writing life, our affinity for hybrid narratives, shared anxieties, and the joy of teaching. Her short blonde hair was radiant in the dim light and the waitress knew her name and order by heart. It was a brief but invigorating meeting.

We did not talk about Kenny, an enigmatic character in her new memoir, The Way We Weren’t, and the absent father of her teenage daughter, Indie. We did not talk about her life on the road, the many academic jobs she’s held, or the time and distance between these jobs. We did not talk about regret. We did not talk about wine, loss, or sadness. (Though we may have discussed our brothers’ addictions — and her empathy, as I recall, floored me.) The creative memory did not come up, nor did money. We didn’t discuss single parenthood or loneliness or that particularly troublesome itch to flee, though we shared certain aesthetic obsessions that drive each of us to the page. I recall leaving that first meeting feeling better about the world knowing she was in it: paying attention and taking notes.

Thankfully, what we didn’t discuss that night is covered in depth in The Way We Weren’t, a kaleidoscopic memoir-in-essays about a life spent in transition and the elusiveness of “home.” Talbot is a haunting narrator and a haunted woman — doing her best to parent her child alone. Formally inventive, the book points directly at its own artifice, which raises implicit questions about the nature of memory, truth, and narrative authority.

I recently had the opportunity to ask Talbot some questions I didn’t ask during our first meeting: questions provoked by her new book.


Jessica Hendry Nelson: The Way We Weren’t is structured as a series of self-contained personal essays that together form the whole. What does this form allow that a “straight memoir” does not? Is there something intrinsic to your story that lends itself to this form? (I have my own theories, but I’d like to hear your take on it!)

Jill Talbot:  A straight memoir relies on a story, on what happened. You can apply Freytag’s Triangle to its narrative — the exposition/rising action/climax/resolution we all learned in school. A memoir-in-essays relies on the gaps in the story. Instead of what happened, it’s about what’s unknown about what happened. It frees the writer from having to follow such a clear line. In The Way We Weren’t, I’m questioning what happened and complicating the idea that there’s one version of the story. The memoir-in-essays also allows me to muddle through memory and return to certain places and moments, even as the chronology moves forward. So while my daughter, Indie, and I are moving from place to place around the country, my mind keeps going back to those early years with Kenny or a day he showed up in our apartment weeks after he had abandoned us. I write in one of those essays, “What we leave won’t leave us, it seems. Kenny won’t leave me, even though he did long ago. I can run from room to room for the rest of my life. It won’t stop him from coming back.” So there’s this tension between the forward movement of our lives and the recesses of my memory. In another essay, I write, “Memory forms, piece by piece. Some of them go missing, others interlock, firm. We fill in the missing pieces with what we imagine or just leave the gap, admit the blank.” The memoir is built of these pieces and gaps and blanks that would work against a traditional memoir. When I read your question, I thought of your beautiful memoir, If Only You People Could Follow Directions — also a memoir-in-essays. It also circles back to certain moments even as you move forward in your life. For example, you write, in different ways and with varying information, the moment of your father’s death four times in the memoir. And, I suspect, the reason that moment comes in more than any other is that you weren’t there for it, so you have to imagine, invent, wonder, and recreate from the details you have. That’s what I love about the memoir-in-essays, because I can go back to the basement apartment where Kenny and I lived more than once and look at it differently for various purposes because I still need to try to figure out what happened there and how those memories still linger.

JHN: Yes. Your response calls to mind this quote from Christian Wiman’s stunning essay, “The Limit”:

I don’t believe in ‘laying to rest’ the past. There are wounds we won’t get over. There are things that happen to us that, no matter how hard we try to forget, no matter with what fortitude we face them, what mix of religion and therapy we swallow, what finished and durable forms of art we turn them into, are going to go on happening inside of us for as long as our brains are alive.

My understanding or experience of time feels more akin to the movement of the Earth, spinning through its endless laps around the sun, than a straight line. Is your experience or understanding of time related to your experience of memory? Because while your book moves forward chronologically, more or less, it also allows for the recursions of time and memory. You employ past or present tense, depending on the essay. You switch the point of view from first to third. It is a collage-like structure, even while we march ever forward in time. Could you walk us through some of the choices you made? For example, in a section of the book subtitled “Cedar City, Utah: 2003-2006” each essay has a different point of view and is in either past or present tense.

The Way We Weren't_FINAL FOR CAT

JT: Beyond the current music I listen to when Indie is in the car, the only music I listen to is 70s music — the “Firefall” station on Pandora or the Sirius 70s station, so daily I’m inundated with memories attached to those songs, which are integral to my life and my memoir. I live in a time warp — always hearing the same songs over and over and going back to the moments they bring back. Kenny once told me that Gordon Lightfoot’s “Sundown” “felt” like me, it always made him think of me. Every time I hear it, I wonder where he is, if he turns the station when it comes on, and I think of the kitchen in that blue basement where he first told me that. Memory, for me, is a continuous loop — a cassette or CD set to ‘Repeat.’

The essays in that section trace the dissolution of my self. For those who haven’t read the memoir, Cedar City, Utah, is where Indie and I moved after Kenny left us, when I got a job teaching at a university there. It was a difficult time because he was still calling, and I couldn’t move on.

The 1st person of the first essay in that section dissolves into third person in the next one because I was disappearing in the wine. That first essay is a segmented essay about drinking to a black-out level one night and making a pleading phone call to Kenny I don’t remember making — so I had to piece together the evening and the next morning. Segments. The second essay, a flash essay, is about a night I threw a full glass of Chardonnay against the brick wall of my house in the middle of the night, and I chose the flash because it was a fleeting moment, but one that lingers (as a flash essay should do). The final essay returns to 1st person because it’s about my stint in rehab, when I had some difficult reckonings with myself. That essay is segmented because it’s about the various people I met in rehab, so I devote a segment to each person and there are some people who get one stand-alone line because we were all so separate in our struggle, even while we were together. I just remembered this, but three segments of that essay, “Autobiographies,” were initially written as stand-alone flash essays. I submitted them to Brevity and Dinty W. Moore, the editor, wrote back to say they seemed part of a larger whole, and he was right, but I hadn’t written anything around them yet. A fellow writer read the flashes (about the bartender, the woman who had worked at one of the first casinos in Las Vegas, and a railroad worker) and asked, “Why are you writing about them?” I thought a long time about that. Ultimately, I realized I was hiding behind their autobiographies (we were all required to write one in rehab) when what I needed to do was write my own. So the Cedar City section works as a slow dissolve of self — the switch from 1st to 3rd person allows me that movement, and the segmentation serves that disconnected feeling. Hopefully.

JHN: You often utilize “experimental” forms and structures. One essay, “The Professor of Longing,” is structured like a syllabus. In the second edition of their textbook, Tell It Slant, Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paolo call this approach a “hermit crab” essay:

[An essay that] appropriates existing forms as an outer covering, to protect its soft, vulnerable underbelly. It is an essay that deals with material that seems born without its own carapace — material that is soft, exposed, and tender, and must look elsewhere to find the form that will best contain it.

“The Professor of Longing” is a complicated, discursive essay that indeed contains tender material. Often, the assigned readings in your faux-syllabus serve as foils against which the personal material is reflected and recast. How did you settle on this form for this particular content? I try to teach my students that the form must serve the content and vice versa — the two must work together to create meaning. This is a beautiful example. The form, rather than constraining the content, seems to free it up. You are able to move wildly across time and space, from idea to idea, because the calendar structure and assigned readings keep the narrative tethered to a central thread. What else do “hermit crab” essays offer a writer? What do you see as the dangers and rewards? How do you know when you’ve found the right carapace?

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Squirrel, Leopard, Goat


In my sister’s taxonomy, our father is a squirrel. She’s eight, I’m five, and we both agree on this, although if we didn’t, she’d have the final word. Our father: Limpid squirrel eyes, a narrow squirrel face, prominent squirrel teeth. He scampers and leaps and takes small nibbles of everything, even apples.

“Pure squirrel,” she says, and I nod wordlessly.

We classify our family. Our timid rabbit cousins, aunts with hyena laughs, red-faced macaque uncles. Our mother is a no-mercy tiger. Grounded! she doesn’t hesitate to hiss when she catches us in the basement, cutting our boxed baby clothes into cat costumes. We roar back at her when she flashes her claws.

In secret, we divide our friends: the bird children, grabby and rude; the rodents, twitchy, curious; the reptiles, silent.

“What am I?” I ask my sister.

She studies me with scientific scrutiny. “Mouse,” she says.


After the divorce, we catalog all the men our mother dates: Gazelle (too weak for her), rhino (too indifferent), turtle (too inert.) My sister leads the effort, making long lists of all the potential animals, hypothesizing what would fit our mother best. She’s eleven, and says it’s a way to organize the world so it makes more sense. Eat or be eaten, she says. The good men are things like elk or horses; the bad ones are wolverines, skunks, or mountain lions.

In our own play, we argue over who gets to be the big cats. My sister says there can be only one: the most worthy—most fierce.

“I’m the lioness; you’re the cub,” she says. “Since I’d win in a fight.”

“Teach me!” I yowl. “I want to be a lioness too!”

When our mother works late, we wage war with brooms and chairs, hoisting them over our heads, making a spectacle of our viciousness. My sister claims the living room and barricades me out with stacked chairs and book towers. She is both opponent and mentor, sometimes pausing breathlessly mid-siege to shout some big-cat secret at me: Softer when you leap! Louder roar! Hiss like you mean it!

When we’re birds, my sister is a quetzal-hawk, a hybrid, she says. She’s thirteen, slicking mascara over long feathered lashes. She wears our mother’s peacock print shawl veiled over her hair.

“What am I?” I ask.

“A crow,” she says. “They’re smart; you never see them as road kill.”


Time changes our taxonomies.

In high school, our men are half animal, half human. Bear claws jut from long fingers; talons sprout fromt their toes; they flash wolf-fanged smiles. My sister drapes herself over them in the halls, a slouchy leonine casualness to all her encounters. I watch the ones I like from afar: They are beautiful mutants, strange and alien, battle-ready and angry.

In college, my sister chooses predators. Anything that could stalk you, she says. I choose sea turtles and anglerfish, platyupus and chameleons, although the labels don’t feel quite right.

“Why can’t they just be human?” I say.

My sister snickers and says, “Don’t be boring.”

When she visits, she generously classifies mine for me, whispering in my ear their respective genera minutes after she meets them.


When our father moves cross-country, I follow. Perhaps I need a reason to break away, define myself on my own terms. The west coast feels like acceptance, a warm bath of sun over my icy fur. When I see my sister, she wears sequined shirts and takes me to play pool in fuliginous lounges. She talks quickly about her job in journalism and the men who stalk her. They are all different types of prowlers, with a sleekness and stealth that mine lack. She is twenty seven. Her first husband was a leopard; her second, a lion.

“You’re sure he’s not something else?” I ask.

“Of course not,” she says, and laughs, as though there are things I’m incapable of knowing about her species. “We’re both lions.”

Sometimes, we talk about the past: Between us, our taxonomies span innumerable phyla. The elephant boys we eyed as children; the Harris hawks and springbok and wolf spiders in high school; the feline men my sister married, the ruminant one she predicts I will. When our family comes together, in one big welter of claws and snarls and howling laughter, my sister mostly forgets our game. We chew and sleep and grumble as the same species, and I’m grateful. Our tiger mother has tamed into a cat who licks her paws and purrs and flaunts her German shepherd boyfriend. Only once more at a family gathering, when I bring along my fiancé, does my sister whisper to me quietly, in the bathroom of a restaurant, our whole riotous clan waiting outside: “Goat, right? I knew it.”

I shrug, no longer interested. “Maybe,” I say.

She waits for my agreement, but I change the subject.

“Don’t you think he is?” she says again.

“Not really,” I say, nonchalant.

“Well, what animal then?”

“Haven’t thought about it.”

Outside, she casts wounded looks at me, like I’ve trashed something sacred, but I smile and pretend not to see. It’s the end of a tradition between us, something that my sister will never quite grasp I’m able to shed

That evening, we gather at my mother’s house—a twice-a-year kind of closeness—and sit around the deck, watching bats swoop and dive in the half-light.

“Look,” my sister says, pointing: A pair of bats flits and darts in tight rings around each other, circling higher and higher over the dark screen of sky. My fiance squeezes my hand, and I lean into the ursine warmth of his shoulder and watch the bats until they wheel apart. My sister and I slink our eyes around each other, yet the confused look resurfaces in the most delicate twitches of her face, and I know she is struggling, with all her poise, to reassert her old dominance, to win back her pride.


Joy Baglio lives, writes, and teaches in NYC, where she earned her MFA from The New School. She is currently at work on her first novel.

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fridays

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Michael Keefe, Annie Bloom’s Books


Welcome to Tin House’s Bookseller Spotlight, a series of interviews with indie booksellers across the country. Up this week, Michael Keefe of Portland’s Annie Bloom’s Books.



2015 theme and new fictionTin House Books: What was the first book you read that made you fall in love with reading?

Michael Keefe: As a child, whenever I read Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are, I shared the protagonist’s experience of being ferried into a vivid and absorbing alternate reality. In my imagination, the story and images in that book were world-sized.

THB: If you could spend the day with a character, who would it be and what would you do?

MK: I would love to spend the day of June 16, 1904 in Dublin, Ireland, looking over the shoulder of Leopold Bloom, hoping to experience some small fraction of what he sees and smells and touches during the course of those twenty-four hours.

THB: How has being a bookseller changed your relationship to books?

MK: My fifteen years as a bookseller began as a part-time job, meant to fill a gap between careers. Before that, I was a steady reader, but far from fervent. I have since become completely immersed in the world of books. Literature was once a place I visited; now it’s the land I live in.

2015 staff favoritesTHB: What’s a recently released book you keep recommending?

MK: Now that I no longer need to keep recommending All the Light We Cannot See, my go-to staff favorite is The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton, a character-driven and sprawling (yet page-turning!) novel about murder, prostitution, race, politics, and gold, set in nineteenth-century New Zealand.

THB: What’s a book you love that not enough people know about?

MK: Mary Robison’s Why Did I Ever is among my favorite books that far too few people have read. A stylistic triumph, this short novel is structured as hundreds of brief, episodic chapters. At first, the protagonist’s observations seems incidental. But her bone-dry humor, and Robison’s pitch-perfect writing, will keep you engaged, as her fragmented portrait of a fragmented family grows more and more compelling.


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How to Tell If You Are a Literary Dick Disguised as a Pee You Ess Ess Why

BG-From-the-Vault-dc1From our recent Tribes issue, Thomas Sayers Ellis slams “the muzzled blank verse of symmetrical whiskers.”


How to Tell If You Are a Literary Dick Disguised as a Pee You Ess Ess Why


for Walrus


After you’ve feasted on Christians and caesuras,

“Style,” is what you call your cage, “Style,”

as if, structurally, a new species were evolving and swimming,

in-print, toward a glowing coral reef of small presses,

finger-plucked one non-political time too many

like the front glass of your ghazal-shaped tank.

In Fan Srancosis, your litter box got beach-like, clumped with rhyme.

Content tried, tried not to lie, but not even content could cease

your wade into a worn, electronic current of hooked schools

—talking about all the personas in your called-so Crew,

waxing and Slamming the muzzled blank verse of symmetrical whiskers.

Self-trained, in the Madame mode, to regurgitate rejection,

is there a canon of truth to the Romantic rumor

that you willingly refer to boring lovers as “Old Possum?”

Your collar. His leash. Your master. Her tools.

All blown whistles for learned submission.

Poet-pet, Pet-poet, if you are White there is nothing

you can do about it. You are it, curbed. If you are Black,

the nothing you can do about it Bites, bitter

and chained to a classroom-kennel where,

mostly, curled in the period of origins, sleep edits you,

surrendering to the paginated saliva of dust-jacket and bar code, spaded.

Nuanced purr, bio-bred, and as attentive as claws.

Like a bowl of milk scanned best by beginning at the end

of a quatrain down on all fours, your warm bark

caters to the taxidermy of anthologies,

even as, thumb-like, a scaly green head backs into a shell

or is it a soft rim of suffering,

tree-lined sonnets or a cave of chiropractic-twelves,

catalogued, naked and committed to blonde,

blonde wooden shelves, sinister and as tame as meter.

Ego like a domesticated login-marsupial swigging from a simile.

Dude, you act like Ted Hughes is your muse,

leaving Iowa, damn, when Jorie left Iowa, damn!

A preference for hard, first edition, dry food from a bag

over wet, soft cover, pate from a can.

No heroic couplet crowns the poop you post.

No form of linear progression reviews

the tail you can’t abuse into a fashionable ampersand.

If there is a hole, an air hole, still on your shiny gray head?

If so, I know a canto that can help you recite it

with the spiritual buzzwords of, of, of porn-hieroglyphics,

so you can be the “B” you were born to be, Biatch,

un-punned and ruined by “fetch” and Mr. Berryman’s Bones.

Under Gestures and an Assumed Name, fake femme-fatale fur

lures the suicidal mouse in your reading voice to a high window.

Anaphora, a testicle you lick . . . like the long, sung lines

of mangled rodents you leave in the grass near a tennis court.

Poems, like paw-pads, so dangerously soft,

they call to mind—well manicured golf greens,

carefully crafted wedding wishes, and cheerful death notices.

The male-you sprays the female-you for fleas.

The female proofs the male for mange.

Strays, editor-reared, sniff spines.


Thomas Sayers Ellis co-founded The Dark Room Collective (in Cambridge, Massachusetts); and received his M.F.A. from Brown University. He is the author of The Maverick Room (2005), which won the John C. Zacharis First Book Award, and a recipient of a Mrs. Giles Whiting Writers’ Award. His poems and photographs have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Callaloo, Best American Poetry (1997, 2001 and 2010), Grand Street, The Baffler, Jubilat, Tin House, Poetry, and the Nation. He is also an Assistant Professor of Writing at Sarah Lawrence College, a faculty member of the Lesley University low-residency M.F.A Program and a Cave Canem faculty member. He lives in Brooklyn, NY and is currently working on The Go-Go Book: People in the Pocket in Washington, D.C. A new collection of poetry, Skin, Inc., was published by Graywolf Press in 2010.

Posted in Poetry

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July Gems


Rolling on into August, the Tin House staff is still a little delirious from our fantastic 2015 Summer Writer’s Workshop out here in Portland. Through the haze, we’ve tried to recollect some recommendations for your reading, viewing, listening, and playing pleasure. [And for those worried about Tin House Books editor Tony Perez’s grapefruit fizzy water problem, it has indeed taken the emotional and physical toll we all knew it would. Please keep him in your thoughts.]



Jakob: Despite being a huge Margaret Atwood fan and having owned a copy of The Edible Woman for at least five years, I’ve only recently started to read it. The hilarious domestic-terror reminds me of a less creepy Shirley Jackson tale. I’ve been reading slowly, savoring it as my go-to-summer-dinner-on-the-porch book. This is a habit that feels both appropriate and gluttonous, given the main character’s inability to eat and her own feelings of being consumed.

Heather: Lately I’ve been listening a lot to the inimitable Italian jazz trumpeter Enrico Rava. Leader and sideman extraordinaire, his version of “Besame Mucho” is full of verve and goes down well with a cool drink in hand. The smooth tune “Bella” is another favorite that pairs delightfully with summertime. Not to be missed is the dreamy and wistful “Estate,”good to listen to in any season. Rava’s music is just about perfect for late mornings or long nights—especially as summer continues.


Cheston: About six months ago, during a routine fit of nostalgia, I bought a camera. I’d loved photography growing up, had taken classes in high school during which I fell in love with the process of working in a darkroom etc., but it’d been years and years since I’d been interested in taking pictures. Other loves intervened. I’m back at it now, though, and have these past few months been nourishing a fascination with photographers’ lives and how they relate to the practice of shooting, to the tension that resides between life and a representation of it. So with this scoch of context out there, my reco for this month is Sally Mann’s memoir Hold Still. Mann is prolly most known for the pictures she took of her children (often nude) on her family’s farm in Virginia, but to stop with those pictures is about like stopping with Joyce after Dubliners—see for yourself if you’re curious. But Hold Still is part family history and part meditation on race in Virginia and part kunstlerroman. The writing is evocative and lyrical and acerbic and, often, funny. The book includes a lot of pictures, too, and it’s often interesting to see how she leans on them to amplify the meaning of the words around them or to illustrate some point about her craft. And if that weren’t enough, I also came across [i.e. Emma showed it to him. —Ed.] this gem of a website: http://www.nietzschefamilycircus.com/.


Tony: From the department of books you probably don’t need me to recommend, but which I will anyway: Ta-Nehisi Coates’s Between the World and Me. I’m sure a reader of reviews could play a drinking game wherein she took a shot every time “timely” or “essential” is used; it’s certainly both those things. But the intimacy of the prose—the book is a letter addressed to Coates’s son, on how, in America, one might live in a black body—and the deft balancing of particularities and universalities of the author’s experience will keep this slim and powerful volume in circulation far longer than any media cycle. 


Emma: A friend’s visit to town this month finally propelled me to the new Whitney here in NYC. The space itself is spectacular, with its super-clean design and its balconies projecting like ships’ bows into the dreamy ether above the Highline and its beautiful hardwood floors that I want to bowl on. There was so much to see in the main exhibition: Florine Stettheimer! the Catherine Opie self-portrait Maggie Nelson talks about in The Argonauts! super-weird landscape paintings of the west! But as much good work as there was to be seen, it was almost impossible to leave the screening of Helen Levitt’s In the Street. Levitt made her documentary of life on the streets of Spanish Harlem in 1948, but the children it shows live in such poverty and decrepitude—and still, seeming happiness—that there are few markers to place them in time at all. If not for the fact of their being filmed, I would’ve thought I was watching footage from the turn of the century. We see kids roving completely unsupervised through the streets, playing in gutter sewage, marauding in improvised Halloween costumes, taking care of toddler siblings that they can’t be older than by more than a year or two. My friend and I were mesmerized. I felt like we were watching the Peter Pan‘s lost boys (and girls)—but particular and animated and absolutely, once upon a time, real. [Check out Levitt’s photo book by the same name, featuring an essay by Robert Coles. —Ed.]


Michelle: Siri Hustvedt’s What I Loved was recommended to me when I tossed out a Facebook request for a good novel to read on a plane, and for me this book hit all the sweet spots. It is a story of two marriages, of a friendship, of Soho before it was a luxury retail destination, and of the  art world in the 1980s and beyond, when bits of it later curdle into a ghastly charade. The novel begins as the narrator, Leo, and his wife Erica meet their neighbors  Bill and Lucille Wechsler, and the men form a deep friendship. The couples are artists and academics, they have baby sons, they trade dinners and head off for weekends in the country, their careers progress . . . but the two couples aren’t always in sync with one another. A marriage ends, another begins, yet still they remain deeply entwined. For all the gentleness of its earlier arc, the plot takes swift, devastating turns later on—I gasped, people. Gasped.—as Hustvedt moves from a minutely observed exploration of the characters and down a chilling, hurtling road. This one was everything I wanted from a novel. 


Masie: Looking for air conditioning and a reason to eat bucketfuls of popcorn, I’ve seen a lot of movies this month. Jurassic World started off my July with a loud and thrilling Indominus-rex-roar, but disappointed with its prehistoric portrayal of Claire, the vixen/Operations Manager of Jurassic World.  For a dino-epic-palette-cleanser, I went to a daytime showing of The Wolfpack where I encountered a much scarier monster than Indominus—father to the pack, Oscar AnguloThough he rarely takes center stage he haunts much of the film. Then, last week, I saw the splendid Mr. Holmes. Ian McKellen is in top form. Though Mr. Holmes doesn’t clip with breakneck action, the story pushes forward confidently through character development and the looming questions are not so much who done it but why.  

Naturally, we rely on our interns to keep us up to date with the latest trends in video games and 90’s television, which somehow, without our consent, has become “classic.”

Mattie: When I first came across the trailer for Crypt of the Necrodancer, I still didn’t quite grasp the mechanics of the game: rhythm-based rogue-like dungeon crawler—how’s that supposed to work? Rest assured, the tutorial brings you up to speed pretty quick, and it’s one hell of a ride. Crypt of the Necrodancer is an addicting tough-as-nails indie game courtesy of Brace Yourself Games, where you move/attack monsters to the beat of Danny Baranowsky’s sweet electronic soundtrack, all the while exploring procedurally generated dungeons, killing bosses, etc. Story-wise (at least initially) you play as Cadence, a young woman in search of her father and, incidentally, a way to free herself from the curse that’s enslaved her to the Necrodancer’s music. Zombies shamble forward in conga lines, slimes leap from one space to another in a rudimentary jig, and the shopkeeper even sings along to the music when you enter his room. It’s incredibly charming—that is, until the final third of the game where you’ll inevitably throw a full-on adult tantrum in response to the difficulty increase (the final story line requires you to be near perfect in skill—miss a single beat and you’ll have to start over). But don’t let that deter you from entering the Crypt. This is one unique game with a lot to offer—tons of extra playable characters, daily challenges, local co-op mode, and even the option to upload your own music. Besides, I can attest to the experience still being fun even just redoing the first two sections over and over, and if you’re not willing to put in the 500+ hours of intense training it’ll probably take to beat the whole thing, there’s no shame in looking up plot spoilers on Wikipedia.


Alana: I wish I had some kind of incredibly deep and thought-provoking literature or emotionally life-altering art to share, but this July I have just been watching The X-Files for thirty-one days.  The 90’s to early 2000’s sci-fi alien classic has been nothing but a good time, from its ultimate arc of government conspiracy about extra-terrestrial life to its really campy filler episodes about Christmas ghosts and a complete homage to Frankenstein (these are the best episodes, despite what anyone says).   However, I would like to say that, if you let it, The X-Files can be deep and thought-provoking and emotionally life-altering art, too.  The emotional core of the show is the (debatably romantic/platonic) relationship between FBI agents Dana Scully and Fox Mulder, which explores how belief and unbelief in the unknown can affect trust in others.  I would argue that The X-Files is mostly a show about faith, whether in God or aliens or the people you care about, and wrestling with that faith in face of adversity, hidden beneath the facade of classic, sometimes over-the-top 90’s television.  If you haven’t seen it already, now is a good time to start.  After an eight year hiatus, The X-Files is returning for a mini-series in January of 2016 with the original cast, and this is probably just enough time to catch up before the air date.  All nine seasons are available on Netflix so sit down for an episode and judge for yourself. Remember—the truth is out there.  

Speaking of reboots of classic turn-of-the-last-century properties, our Workshop Director Lance Cleland has a brief recommendation:


Lance: Need I say more?

We’ll just stop there. Let us know what we missed last month in the comments!

Posted in Desiderata

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Two Truths and a Lie: What do Fiction Writers Take from Life?


In middle school we all played it – you did too, right? The game where each person tells three facts about themselves, except that one of those “facts” is made up, and it’s the responsibility of the other players to tell the difference between them. Think about a reverse form of Apples to Apples, in which you pin your hopes on the idea that no one knows you well enough to pick out the style of lie you prefer, which kind of world you’d embroider if given the right thread.

Back when I played this game regularly, I was a child, and easily shaken by misinformation. For example, I remember the shock I felt upon discovering that Christopher Columbus didn’t really discover America, per se. I must have been about eleven years old, in fifth grade; I was reading a magazine that happened to mention the pre-Columbian presence of Norsemen in North America, and got so upset that my fingers curled around the page, balling it up, almost tearing it free. I thought about the people who the Norse visitors met, how they were there even earlier, how “discovering” something didn’t really mean much when the thing already existed. I wanted to crumple the paper into a ball and tuck it into my mouth and chew.

Or did I?

Is that the kind of thing that a person can easily remember?

Now I write fiction, and am daily called upon to turn facts and ideas into more compelling versions of themselves – to make everything a story. (In an earlier draft of this essay, actually, I talked about Columbus without mentioning the page of the magazine, my horror at it, specifically, the way my fingertips skimmed the slight indentations where ink was pressed to paper. It was boring, so I decided to go deeper, and imagine how it might have been.) I know that some people think that working this way means lying pretty much all the time. I once asked a classroom full of composition students whether they preferred reading fiction or non-fiction, and why: the overwhelming majority chose non-fiction, saying that memoirists write from life, and that makes their work feel more intimate and true.

As if words on the page were ever reliable.

I don’t see it that way. Perhaps because I know that, when I write non-fiction, I’m compelled to embellish and take a point of view in order to make my stories more coherent and interesting to a reader (see: Columbus) – and as I learned way back in childhood, many historians do the same thing (see again: Columbus) even while claiming to be consummate truth-tellers. Although I often love reading both essays and memoir, I turn to them with a bit more skepticism than I do with fiction. Blame the childhood game, trotted out for fun at slumber parties and as an icebreaker in new classrooms and committee meetings, which taught me to exercise doubt when people insisted most earnestly that they were being honest.


Sometimes, of course, I’d play Two Truths and a Lie with my friends and hear a fabrication so convincing that it seemed a shame to learn it wasn’t real. This led me to wonder: was there such a thing as a lie that’s truer than truth? Not just more shapely, but actually a better expression of a person’s heart and character than mundane reality. I do think so: I think that’s a story. Though it’s not the right tool in every situation (which is to say, I don’t want family/friends/scientists/journalists lying to me, most of the time), good fiction has the power to articulate human character and felt experience better than anything else I know. And it comes to you with such open arms: before even opening the book, you’re in on the joke: it’s a “novel,” it’s “stories,” you know it’s not “true.” So you’re free to step inside and let the book whisper its secrets, which may not line up with the world you live in, but (if the writing is good) will have their own ring of authenticity.

Now, my family history lends itself to the opposite Two Truths and a Lie problem: stories so fantastical they have a hard time passing as reality, even though that’s where they come from. Stories so chock with derring-do that to listen to them is to shake your head and say with a laugh: It couldn’t really have happened that way, could it? It’s a writerly double-edged sword. How can I use them? How can I not? In general, I’ve chosen to skirt around their edges, letting the strangeness of their reality make me brave enough to write strangely in my fiction. But maybe their time has come.

So let’s play. I’ll share three incidents from my family’s (and my own) past-to-near-present, and you decide, in the end, which are real and which I’ve made up.

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Three Men, an excerpt from 52 Men


We are pleased to present three of our favorites of the the fifty-two sketches of “men encountered by a young woman in Manhattan” in Louise Wareham Leonard’s autobiographical novel 52 Men, out this month from Red Hen Press.



Richard is a student at the School of Visual Arts. I pass him one day, on my way from the subway station, across 23rd Street toward the East River. He has long curly hair, wild rambunctious Zeppelin hair. “Can I walk with you?” he asks, standing up from his perch against the school wall. “I mean,” he says, shaking out his hair, “You’re so beautiful.” Later, he picks me up at school on his motorcycle. I have eaten nothing that day but a packet of green Chiclets. Richard offers me a drag on his cigarette. It is a Marlboro and too strong for me. When I get off the bike, I throw up in the gutter. I leave a tiny puddle of bright green water, the green of children’s toys and plastic balls. We go to Brooklyn and his windows are open. Wind blows over the bed. He kisses me. He kisses my breasts and licks my pussy. When I won’t have sex with him, he tries to change my mind. What is the difference, he wants to know, between him touching me with his fingers, him licking me with his tongue—and him entering me with his cock? “There is a big difference,” I say. “Not really,” he says. He argues and argues with me. He argues so much that I think maybe he is a little stupid: a dead head, maybe, or a metal head. Or, maybe, he just thinks I am stupid.




Sergio* comes from school. He is seventeen and beautiful and from Queens, and before that Argentina. He has milky skin and dark eyes. He plays basketball and soccer. Later, he goes into construction. He opens a restaurant in New York City. He dates a starlet who is named for an exotic flower in Sri Lanka. In my room, we cut cocaine into sugary lines. We stay up until 5:00 am. I open the window and sit on the ledge. A breeze comes in. He straddles my desk chair, backwards. He laughs and because he laughs, and because everything is easy for him, and good, and good news—because of all this—together in the early morning, a May breeze filling my room—we write a list of all the ways to say “sexual intercourse” in the English language: Nail. Hammer. Screw. 

*See Appendix




Tony is from Liverpool: he is a boxer, and also an actor, and of a formidable size. I hardly know him but he takes me to the Turkish Baths on East 12th Street. He throws me in the cold water, then the hot, then the ice. He thrashes me with eucalyptus fronds and massages me in the steam room. He does all this, over and over, for two hours. He takes me into a shower stall and cuts my hair, because he is also, he says, a hairdresser. He lies me in a cot and feeds me carrot juice, and later borscht. When we get outside, he veers into a bookstore and reads me Neruda: In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself. . . .



SergioA52Men (1)

SergioB52Men (1)


Born in New Zealand, Louise Wareham Leonard moved to Manhattan at age twelve and attended Columbia College. Her first novel, Since You Ask (Akashic Books,2004), was awarded the James Jones Literary Society Award. Her second, Miss Me a Lot Of, was published in 2007 by Victoria University Press. Her newest book, 52 Men, is forthcoming from Red Hen Press in August 2015. In addition to Manhattan, Louise has lived and worked in Europe, the Deep South, and the remote outback of western Australia. She currently lives with her husband in Irondequoit, New York, on Lake Ontario.
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Lispector Week (Flash Friday Edition): Better Than Burning


Closing down the Open Bar’s week with Clarice, we present a freshly translated piece of Flash Fiction about a “hairy nun” who leaves the convent in search of sex. 


She was tall, strong, hairy. Mother Clara had dark hair on her upper lip and deep-set, black eyes.

She had entered the convent at her family’s insistence: they wanted her sheltered in God’s embrace. She obeyed.

She carried out her duties without complaint. Her duties were manifold. And there were the prayers. She prayed fervently.

And she confessed every day. Every day the white host that crumbled in her mouth.

But she began to tire of living only among women. Women, women, women. She chose a friend as her confidante. She told her she couldn’t bear it any longer. The friend counseled her:

“Mortify your body.”

She began sleeping on the cold stone floor. And she wore sackcloth. It was no use. She got violent fevers and chills, had scratches all over.

She confessed to the priest. He ordered her to keep mortifying herself. She did.

But whenever the priest touched her mouth while giving her the host she’d have to stop herself from biting the priest’s hand. He noticed, didn’t say a word. There was a silent pact between them. Both mortified themselves.

She could no longer look at Christ’s half-naked body.

Mother Clara was the daughter of Portuguese parents and, in secret, shaved her hairy legs. If anyone ever found out, she was in for it. She told the priest. He went pale. He imagined how strong her legs must be, how shapely.


One day, at lunchtime, she began to cry. She didn’t tell anyone why. Not even she knew why she was crying.

And from then on she was always crying. Though she hardly ate, she was gaining weight. But there were purplish circles under her eyes. When she sang in church, she was a contralto.

Until she told the priest in the confessional:

“I can’t bear it any longer, I swear I can’t bear it any longer.”

He said meditatively:

“It’s better not to marry. But marrying is better than burning.”

She requested an audience with the mother superior. The mother superior fiercely reprimanded her. But Mother Clara stood firm: she wanted to leave the convent, she wanted to find a man, she wanted to get married. The mother superior asked her to wait another year. She answered that she couldn’t, that it had to be now.

She packed her few things and took off. She went to live in a boardinghouse for young women.

Her black hair grew out abundantly. And she seemed airy, dreamy. She paid for the boardinghouse with the money her Northern family sent. Her family didn’t approve. But they couldn’t let her starve to death.

She herself made her quaint dresses out of cheap fabric, on a sewing machine lent by another girl at the boardinghouse. The dresses had long sleeves, high collars, went below the knee.

And nothing happened. She prayed often for something good to happen to her. In the form of a man.

And indeed it did.

She went down to the corner bar to buy a bottle of Caxambu mineral water. The owner was a handsome Portuguese man who was enchanted by Clara’s demure manner. He didn’t let her pay for the Caxambu water. She blushed.

But she came back the next day to buy some coconut sweets. She didn’t pay for those either. The Portuguese, named Antônio, got up the nerve to ask her to the movies. She declined.

The next day she came back to have some coffee. Antônio promised he wouldn’t touch her if they went to the movies. She accepted.

They went to see a movie and didn’t pay any attention to it. By the end, they were holding hands.

They began meeting for long strolls. She, with her black hair. He in a suit and tie.

Then one night he said to her:

“I’m rich, the bar makes enough money for us to get married. How about it?”

“Yes,” she answered solemnly.

They got married in church and at City Hall. In church the person who married them was the priest who told her marrying was better than burning. They took a steamy honeymoon to Lisbon. Antônio left his brother in charge of the bar.

She came back pregnant, satisfied, happy.

They had four children, all boys, all hairy.


Clarice Lispector was born in 1920 to a Jewish family in western Ukraine. As a result of the anti-Semitic violence they endured, the family fled to Brazil in 1922, and Clarice Lispector grew up in Recife. Following the death of her mother when Clarice was nine, she moved to Rio de Janeiro with her father and two sisters, and she went on to study law. With her husband, who worked for the foreign service, she lived in Italy, Switzerland, England, and the United States, until they separated and she returned to Rio in 1959; she died there in 1977. Since her death, Clarice Lispector has earned universal recognition as Brazil’s greatest modern writer.

Katrina Dodson’s (translator) work has appeared in Granta, McSweeney’s, and Two Lines. She holds a PhD in comparative literature at the University of California, Berkeley.

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fridays

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Lispector Week: Anderson Tepper on Near to the Wild Heart


In honor of the upcoming New Directions release of Clarice Lispector’s Complete Stories, The Open Bar has decided to hand the keys over to the Brazilian legend. Tune in all week for previously unpublished and newly translated stories, as well as reviews and thoughts on her work.

From our fourth issue, Anderson Tepper dances with Clarice Lispector’s 1944 debut, Near to the Wild Heart.


When I was twenty-four, I would stand on the rooftops in Harlem and look up at Columbia University – just as I had stood on the hill at Columbia for four years, looking down at Harlem.  I would read Lorca’s Poet in New York, Julio Cortazar’s Around the Day in Eighty Worlds, and other books that took me closer to the edge. But no book, no voice, vibrated more with me at the time than Clarice Lispector’s Near to the Wild Heart. I was nearer to the wild heart than ever, and this small, iridescent book was a revelation.

First published in 1944, when Lispector was nineteen, Near to the Wild Heart (the title was taken from Joyce: “He was alone. He was unheeded, happy and near to the wild heart of life”) was brought out in 1990 by New Directions in an English translation by Giovanni Pontiero, with a striking Paul Klee watercolor on the cover.  But who was this mysterious Brazilian woman? Her face on the inside jacket was aloof, brittle, piercing. (The name itself, I liked to think, with its echo of the verb to see, hinted at her clairvoyant powers.)

I learned that she had been born in the Ukraine and moved to moved to Brazil at the age of two months. Raised in Recife, in the northeast, and then in Rio, she became one of Brazil’s and Latin America’s greatest modern writers, especially championed internationally by feminists and academics (Grace Paley and Helene Cixous, among others). And yet her writing also turned maddeningly “hermetic,” as the translator Gregory Rabassa said of her later novel, The Apple in the Dark. (The story collections Family Ties and Soulstorm, with their brief, crystal-like epiphanies, are more accessible.) But if her later work could seem incomprehensible, the language of her first novel – like the gaze of Joana, the book’s central character – was “fragile” and “incandescent” yet so elastic, so untamed, so coltish that I was immediately drawn in. I was galloping along breathlessly by the time Joana declares: “I need only fulfill myself and then nothing will impede my path until death-without-fear; from whatever struggle or truce, I shall arise as strong and comely as a young colt.”


Lispector wove a spell around the story of Joana’s growing self-discovery: from her childhood with her absentminded father to her years with her conservative aunt and uncle after her father dies, and then the solitary trauma of boarding school.  Later, after her marriage to Otavio (“a withered leaf,” “a man with folded arms”) collapses, her focus turns almost completely inward. Little of the Rio air and sea are let in, yet you come to relish the small glimpses of the outside world, knowing that here is Brazil seen through the prism of a prophetic sensibility. And as the floodgates of youthful wonder are opened, an imagination is revealed that is so rich, so self-entranced, that the walls of the stuffy middle-class Rio homes crumble and recede in comparison. With not much else to do, Joana anticipates herself: “Happy and tranquil, I wait for myself, I wait for myself to rise and to emerge as I really am before my own eyes.” And then she watches as she begins to appear to herself in myriad forms: “She fell silent once more, peering into herself. She remembered: I am the tiny wave that has no other region except the sea, I tussle with myself, I glide, I fly, laughing, giving, sleeping, but alas, always within myself, always within myself.” I recognized her emotional world of make-believe, her fragile, high-strung nerves (“let them make a harp from my nerves when I die”), her looking-glass vision so immediate and penetrating it was painful.

But for years I had forgotten, or at least set aside, Lispector’s books.  When New Directions came out with Selected Cronicas, a collection of her newspaper sketches, a few years ago, I was reminded once again of her and my earlier infatuation. Yet while the long shadows of writers like Joyce and Woolf and Faulkner continue to hang over younger writers, little mention is made these days of Clarice Lispector. For me, however, her spirit, amorphous and enraptured, is still very much present.

And now I’m far from Harlem, far from the rooftops I once danced on, wistfully watching the traffic crawl by below and the college on the hill shimmer above. But I only have to say the name Lispector to begin to remember those times and that feeling, so blissfully alone and near to the wild heart.


Clarice Lispector was born in 1920 to a Jewish family in western Ukraine. As a result of the anti-Semitic violence they endured, the family fled to Brazil in 1922, and Clarice Lispector grew up in Recife. Following the death of her mother when Clarice was nine, she moved to Rio de Janeiro with her father and two sisters, and she went on to study law. With her husband, who worked for the foreign service, she lived in Italy, Switzerland, England, and the United States, until they separated and she returned to Rio in 1959; she died there in 1977. Since her death, Clarice Lispector has earned universal recognition as Brazil’s greatest modern writer.

Anderson Tepper has been on the editorial staff of Vanity Fair since 1998 and has written on books for a variety of publications, including The New York Times Book Review, The Nation, TLS, Washington Post, Village Voice, Salon, and Nextbook.


Posted in Lost & Found

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Lispector Week: Covert Joy


In honor of the upcoming New Directions release of Clarice Lispector’s Complete Stories, we decided to hand The Open Bar keys over to the Brazilian legend. Tune in all week for previously unpublished and newly translated stories, as well as reviews and thoughts on her work.

Today, we bring you the previously unpublished story (!!!!!) “Covert Joy.”


Covert Joy


She was fat, short, freckled, and had reddish, excessively frizzy hair. She had a huge bust, while the rest of us were still flat-chested. As if that weren’t enough, she’d fill both pockets of her blouse, over her bust, with candy. But she had what any child devourer of stories would wish for: a father who owned a bookstore.

She took little advantage of it. And we still less: even for birthdays, instead of at least a cheap little book, she’d present us a postcard from her father’s shop. Even worse, it would be a view of Recife itself, where we lived, with the bridges we’d seen countless times. On the back she’d write in elaborately curlicued script words like “birthday” and “miss you.”

But what a talent she had for cruelty. She was pure vengeance, sucking noisily on her candy. How that girl must have hated us, we who were unforgivably pretty, slender, tall, with flowing hair. She performed her sadism on me with calm ferocity. In my eagerness to read, I didn’t even notice the humiliations to which she subjected me: I kept begging her to lend me the books she wasn’t reading.

Until the momentous day came for her to start performing a kind of Chinese torture on me. As if in passing, she informed me that she owned The Shenanigans of Little Miss Snub-Nose, by Monteiro Lobato.

It was a thick book, my God, it was a book you could live with, eating it, sleeping it. And completely beyond my means. She told me to stop by her house the next day and she’d lend it to me.

Up until the next day I was transformed into the very hope of joy itself: I wasn’t living, I was swimming slowly in a gentle sea, the waves carrying me to and fro.

The next day I went to her house, literally running. She didn’t live above a shop like me, but rather in a whole house. She didn’t ask me in. Looking me right in the eye, she said she’d lent the book to another girl, and that I should come back the next day. Mouth agape, I left slowly, but soon enough hope entirely overtook me again and I started back down the street skipping, which was my strange way of moving through the streets of Recife. This time I didn’t even fall: the promise of the book guided me, the next day would come, next days would later become the rest of my life, love for the world awaited me, I went skipping through the streets as usual and didn’t fall once.

But things didn’t simply end there. The secret plan of the bookseller’s daughter was serene and diabolical. The next day, there I stood at her front door, with a smile and my heart beating. Only to hear her calm reply: the book hadn’t been returned yet, and I should come back the next day. Little did I know how later on, over the course of my life, the drama of “the next day” with her would repeat itself with my heart beating.

And so it went. For how long? I don’t know. She knew that it was for an indefinite time, until the bile oozed completely out of her thick body. I had already started figuring out that she had chosen me to suffer, sometimes I figure things out. But, in actually figuring things out, I sometimes accept them: as if whoever wants to make me suffer damn well needs me to suffer.

For how long? I’d go to her house daily, without missing a single day. Sometimes she’d say: well I had the book yesterday afternoon, but you didn’t come till this morning, so I lent it to another girl. And I, who didn’t usually get dark circles under my eyes, felt those dark circles deepening under my astonished eyes.

Until one day, when I was at her front door, listening humbly and silently to her refusal, her mother appeared. She must have been wondering about the mute, daily presence of that girl at her front door. She asked us to explain. There was a silent commotion, interrupted by words that didn’t clarify much. The lady found it stranger and stranger that she wasn’t understanding. Until this good mother understood. She turned to her daughter and with enormous surprise exclaimed: But that book never left the house and you didn’t even want to read it!

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The 2015 Summer Workshop: The Photos

Thanks to our ace photographer, Cheston Knapp, we were able to document some of the shenanigans that took place during our recent Summer Workshop.

To take a full tour of our week at Reed, be sure to scroll through the entire 2015 Summer Album.












Posted in Writers' Workshops

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Lispector Week: Kim Adrian on The Passion According to G.H.


In honor of the upcoming New Directions release of Clarice Lispector’s Complete Stories, we decided to hand The Open Bar keys over to the Brazilian legend. Tune in all week for previously unpublished and newly translated stories, as well as reviews and thoughts on her work.

Today, Kim Adrian unpacks The Passion According to G.H.


Clarice Lispector’s novel The Passion According to G.H. chronicles—in maddening detail—one woman’s existential and alimentary encounter with a cockroach.  Driven by a consuming curiosity and a “hellish love,” this woman—a sheltered, upper-middle-class lady living in Rio de Janeiro and known only as G.H.—kills the roach, then eats part of it, and in so doing enters a state of “primary, divine glory.”  Lipsector (who, although born in the Ukraine, lived most of her life in Brazil and wrote in Portuguese) was a philosopher as much as a writer.  She considered herself an existentialist, and The Passion According to G.H. belongs to the same tradition as Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea in that its true subject is neither G.H. nor the roach, but the slippery, painful juncture between individual consciousness and reality.  In Lispector’s arrangement, that juncture is represented by the unholy “Eucharist” of the cockroach’s living plasma.

We first find G.H., who lives alone in a large, lavishly furnished penthouse apartment, lounging around in her bathrobe, aimlessly rolling “little, round balls out of the heart of the bread” as she muses distractedly on her latest romantic liaison.  Eventually bored by these benign acts of “nonbeing,” she decides to clean the room of her recently quitted maid.  But to her surprise, she finds this room perfectly tidy.  Tidy, although not exactly immaculate: a healthy, gleaming cockroach soon makes its appearance, ambling slowly out of the dark depths of a wooden wardrobe and toward the light.  In a fit of murderous repulsion, G.H. pinches the bug between the wardrobe’s door and door frame, only to acquire, by infinitesimal degrees, an irresistible appetite for the pulpy white goo that slowly emerges from the bug’s broken carapace.

Lispector’s method of storytelling consists mostly of relentless iterations of just a few images and themes—the obscene but jewellike opulence of the roach, for instance, is visited and revisited on almost every page, as is the barren desolation of the bedchamber in which the story takes place.  All of this repetition creates a kind of manic echo, no doubt meant to reflect the struggle of G.H. as she psychically disengages from her everyday life and identity; but it also drives the reader—this reader, anyway—crazy, and not, I think, in the intended way.  In fact, my frustration grew as I read, outlasting the novel’s final lines, so that when I finally shut the book’s covers, I found myself in need of a tall gin and tonic and some seriously lite entertainment.

Yet over the course of the next few days, my thoughts—working on one of those mute under-channels—returned again and again to Lispector’s novel, and my understanding of the book emerged as quietly and unexpectedly as the story’s central metaphor emerges from its dark hiding place.

That metaphor, Lispector’s roach, is nearly as touching, repulsive, and comic an insect as Kafka’s—although this roach is very much a real roach.  Lispector’s most beautiful writing, at least as rendered by translator Ronald W. Sousa, concerns the physical properties of this primordial insect.  Largish (my impression: about two inches long) it is

an auburn color.  And all covered with cilia…The antennae were quiet…dry, dusty filaments…But its eyes were black and radiant.   The eyes of a girl about to be married.  Each eye itself looked like a cockroach.  Each fringed, dark, live, dusted eye.

However fabulous the cockroach, the maid’s room in which it resides is so plain, so bleached and bare, as to remind G.H. of a “portrait of an empty stomach” or of a scene “after a flood.”  In this austere setting, G.H. conducts her “Sabbath orgy,” submitting to “human martyrdom itself,” accompanied by the mute but nevertheless deafening strains of a “silent oratorio.”  Religious terms like these surface in nearly every paragraph, so that when G.H. says she feels “curiosity…consuming” her as she studies the half-squashed cockroach, we think naturally of Eve.  But Eve, of course, was looking for knowledge, while G.H. is looking for something else.  And she finds this something—which she calls variously “God,” a “plasma,” the “real,” the “neutral,” and the “now”—in “that stuff…coming out of the cockroach’s belly.”

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Ace House


We are thrilled to announce that Tin House is now the Gideons Bible of Ace Hotel.


Look for our magazines in their Portland and Midtown Manhattan rooms.


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Lispector Week: Praça Mauá


In honor of the upcoming New Directions release of Clarice Lispector’s Complete Stories, we have decided to hand the keys to The Open Bar over to the Brazilian legend. Tune in all week for previously unpublished and newly translated stories, as well as reviews and thoughts on her work.

Kicking off Lispector week is a new translation (by Katrina Dodson) of Praça Mauá, which concerns itself with an argument between a stripper and her transvestite friend over who is the better woman. 


Praça Mauá


The cabaret on the Praça Mauá was called “Erótica.” And Luísa’s stage name was Carla.

Carla was a dancer at the “Erótica.” She was married to Joaquim who worked himself to death as a carpenter. And Carla “worked” in two ways: dancing half-naked and cheating on her husband.

Carla was beautiful. She had small teeth and a tiny waist. She was utterly fragile. She had hardly any breasts but her hips were nice and curvy. It took her an hour to do her makeup: afterward she looked like a porcelain doll. She was thirty but looked a lot younger.

She didn’t have children. She and Joaquim didn’t have much to do with each other. He worked until ten at night. She started work right at ten. She slept all day.

Carla was a lazy Luísa. She’d show up at night, when it was time for her to perform, she’d start yawning, she felt like wearing a nightie in her own bed. It was also because she was shy. As incredible as it might seem, Carla was a shy Luísa. She’d strip, sure, but those first moments of dancing and gyrating were filled with shame. She only “warmed up” a few minutes later. Then she pulled out all the stops, gyrating, giving it all she had. The samba was her specialty. But a really romantic blues number also got her going.

She’d get called over for a drink with customers. She got a commission for every bottle. She’d pick the most expensive one. And pretend to drink: it wasn’t alcohol. She’d let the customer get drunk and spend money. Chatting with them was a chore. They’d caress her, run their hands over her tiny breasts. And she’d be wearing a sparkly bikini. Gorgeous.

Once in awhile she’d sleep with a customer. She’d take the money, tuck it away safe and sound in her bra and the next day go shopping for clothes. Her closet was overflowing. She’d get blue jeans. And necklaces. Tons of necklaces. And bracelets, rings.

Sometimes, just to mix it up, she’d dance in blue jeans and no bra, her breasts swaying among her glittering necklaces. She’d have bangs and make a little beauty mark near her lips with black eyeliner. She was darling. She’d wear long, dangly earrings, sometimes pearls, sometimes fake gold.

Tn21UpqlLtb5CRJpQ1Oqkcd4z1usLRsV8rj2sM0IhIcE5U9l7a6C0N1E2kvLrrh9JgNj12syOmwUZ5y8BnJrV9Ha_EeU=s480Whenever she was feeling down she’d be saved by Celsinho, a man who wasn’t a man. They really got one another. She’d vent bitterly to him, complaining about Joaquim, complaining about inflation. Celsinho, a popular transvestite, listened to it all and gave her advice. They weren’t rivals. Each had their own partner.

Celsinho came from an upper-class family. He’d left everything behind to follow his calling. He didn’t dance. But he wore lipstick and false eyelashes. The sailors on Praça Mauá adored him. And he played hard to get. He only gave in at the last second. And he got paid in dollars. He invested the money he exchanged on the black market at Halles Bank. He was terribly afraid of growing old and helpless. Especially because an old tranny is a pitiful sight. To keep up his strength he took two packets of protein powder daily. He had wide hips and, from taking so many hormones, had acquired a facsimile of breasts. Celsinho’s stage name was Moleirão.*

Moleirão and Carla made good money for the owner of the “Erótica.” The smoky atmosphere reeked of alcohol. And there was the dance floor. It was rough being dragged out to dance by a drunk sailor. But what could you do. Everyone’s got their “métier.”

Celsinho had adopted a four-year-old girl. He was a real mother to her. He didn’t sleep much because he was taking care of his little girl. She wanted for nothing: everything she had was the very best. And a Portuguese nanny. On Sundays, Celsinho would take Claretinha to the zoo, in the Quinta da Boa Vista. And they’d both eat popcorn. And feed the monkeys. Claretinha was afraid of the elephants. She’d ask:

“How come their noses are so big?”

Celsinho would then tell a whimsical story involving evil fairies and good fairies. Or then he’d take her to the circus. And they’d suck noisily on their candy, the two of them. Celsinho wanted a brilliant future for Claretinha: marriage to a wealthy man, children, jewels.

Carla had a Siamese cat that gazed at her with hard blue eyes. But Carla hardly had time to take care of her pet: she was either sleeping, or dancing, or shopping. The cat’s name was Leléu. And it lapped up milk with its delicate little red tongue.

Joaquim hardly ever saw Luísa. He refused to call her Carla. Joaquim was fat and short, of Italian stock. He’d been given the name Joaquim by a Portuguese neighbor women. His name was Joaquim Fioriti. Fioriti? there was nothing flowery about him.

Joaquim and Luísa’s maid was a cheeky black woman who stole as much as she could. Luísa hardlyate, to maintain her figure. Joaquim would drench himself with minestrone. The maid knew about everything but kept her mouth shut. And she was in charge of polishing Carla’s jewelry with Brasso and Silvo. While Joaquim was sleeping and Carla was working, the maid, named Silvinha, would wear her mistress’s jewelry. And she was a somewhat ashy black color.

Here’s how what happened, happened.

Carla was telling secrets to Moleirão, when she was asked to dance by a tall man with broad shoulders. Celsinho lusted after him. And was green with envy. He was vindictive.

When the dance ended and Carla came back to sit with Moleirão, he could barely contain his anger. And there sat Carla, innocent. It wasn’t her fault she was attractive. And she’d taken quite a liking to that big hunky man. She said to Celsinho:

“I’d sleep with that one without charging a cent.”

Celsinho silent. It was nearly three in the morning. The “Erótica” was full of men and women. Lots of housewives went there for fun and to make a little extra cash.

Then Carla said:

“It’s so nice to dance with a real man.”

Celsinho jumped up:

“But you’re not a real woman!”

“Me? what do you mean I’m not?” gasped the girl who that night was dressed in black, a full-length gown with long sleeves, she looked like a nun. She did it on purpose to turn on the men who wanted a pure woman.

“You,” Celsinho sputtered, “aren’t a woman at all! You don’t even know how to fry an egg! And I do! I do! I do!”

Carla turned into Luísa. Pale, bewildered. She’d been stung in her innermost femininity. Bewildered, staring at Celsinho who looked like an old hag.

Carla didn’t say a word. She rose, stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and, without a word of explanation, ditching the party at its peak, left.

There she stood, all in black, on the Praça Mauá, at three in the morning. Like the cheapest of whores. Alone. With nowhere to turn. It was true: she didn’t know how to fry an egg. And Celsinho was more woman than she.

The square was dark. And Luísa took a deep breath. She looked at the lampposts. The empty square.

And in the sky the stars.

* Clumsy, lazy; a softy


Clarice Lispector was born in 1920 to a Jewish family in western Ukraine. As a result of the anti-Semitic violence they endured, the family fled to Brazil in 1922, and Clarice Lispector grew up in Recife. Following the death of her mother when Clarice was nine, she moved to Rio de Janeiro with her father and two sisters, and she went on to study law. With her husband, who worked for the foreign service, she lived in Italy, Switzerland, England, and the United States, until they separated and she returned to Rio in 1959; she died there in 1977. Since her death, Clarice Lispector has earned universal recognition as Brazil’s greatest modern writer.

Katrina Dodson’s (translator) work has appeared in Granta, McSweeney’s, and Two Lines. She holds a PhD in comparative literature at the University of California, Berkeley.

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Miss Me


Perimenopause, have you heard of it? I heard about it today on NPR. It explains why women go demented as they get older. They compared it to puberty, how you go into it one way and come out of it another. But instead of cue ball breasts and fecund loins this “transition,” as they call it, leaves you fucked in the head.

This is what I want to say to Ralph as we sit in the art gallery with Teddy’s photos, side-by-side on a marble bench designed to torture the buttocks of post-perimenopausal women. Funny how my doctor says I’m fat, yet my ass is as bountiful as a jailhouse mattress. Just another injustice of this brave new world I’ve entered, like the condescending “Miss” that younger men have started using when addressing me in restaurants and shops.

“I could be your grandmother,” I told the new bagger at the Safeway yesterday. “Don’t Miss me.”

I want to tell Ralph about this, too, and how the worst part of being “Missed” is that for a split second I believe it, before I look over my shoulder for someone other than the cranky old bitch it surprises me that I am. I still wake up sometimes with the smell of my childhood bedroom in my nostrils, that sweet smell of an old house, of drying laundry and the lavender sachets my mother made for my underwear drawer. I stretch my legs and curl my toes and listen for long gone voices coming from the kitchen.

I forget if it’s better to talk to Ralph about the past or the present. Lately, time’s been pumping along like an accordion, stretching and folding in on itself. If I nod off in the early evening I have to make a mental list when I wake up: who’s alive, who’s lost, what do I know for sure and what’s make-believe?

“Present and accounted for,” Ralph tells me on his good days, when he notices my eyes have opened.

Now, in this big white room with my brother’s photographs on the walls, I could talk about my mother. How she was a glamorous housewife back when that was one of the better options for a woman. How she liked to tell Teddy and me about the time before we were born, when she went swimming in the river with the neighborhood’s artists and their “artistic” wives. How her friend Ed, the famous photographer, had taken her photograph. I picture my mother like he did: white arms cutting through the inky water, the sun low, humidity curling her hair into a nest at the nape of her neck. Back then the river sprouted tender grass and green frogs and you could sunbathe on the little island that’s now a settlement of ragged tents.

“It’s Jenny.” Ralph says. His finger, thick and gnarled as a knob of ginger, is caught in the exhibition catalog. I tug it free and open the book to the place he was marking.

“Yes, it is,” I say, remembering the doctor’s suggestion to “meet him where he’s at.” The truth will just confuse and frighten him, make him cry and scream until I have to give him a pill. And then we’ll relive it again tomorrow.

“Doesn’t she look pretty?” I say, looking at my own, much younger face squinting up into the camera. My hair’s flying to all corners and half submerged under the sand because I’m lying on the beach without a towel. That was the summer my brother got his Brownie and I learned to drive. I can’t remember if we’d gone to Santa Monica or Venice. Our parents were gone for some reason that Sunday and Teddy had talked me into taking the car out. I can see the floral print of my church dress at the bottom of the composition.

It is just a family photo. Why it was printed in this book, or hanging on the walls of this gallery along with the others is a mystery to me. I knew of Ansel Adams and Dorothea Lange, and my mother’s famous Ed. I knew Teddy too, of course, but only as my jumpy little brother. He passed away last year and I’m still getting used to the idea that he will live on indefinitely in these black and white images of our past.

“You think there’s a photo of the two of us?” I poke Ralph’s coat sleeve with a corner of the book. I hold it between us, front cover on his knee, back cover on mine, and flip the pages forward with my thumb.

But he’s gone, his eyes on a patch of floor, his scarf dangling loose from the knot I tied before we left the apartment this morning. The smell of chicken soup from the lobby sandwich shop is coming off the wool. I put the book down on the bench and look around. There are a surprising number of people milling about, and I have the same disorienting feeling I had at Teddy’s wake. Like I should recognize them but I don’t.

“I wonder who she was.” I hear a young woman’s voice and turn to follow it. She’s standing in front of a print of my beach photo that’s hanging on the wall.

“Did you hear that Ralph?” I say.


Honor Rovai has written for Akashic, The Daily GulletNot For Tourists: Los Angeles, GOTOTENNIS and the Awkward literary journal. She recently completed her first novel, inspired by her day job planning galas for the one percent. She lives with her family in San Jose, California.

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