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The Paris Review
Editor Emily Nemens Managing Editor Hasan Altaf Online Editor Nadja Spiegelman Assistant Online Editor Brian Ransom Assistant Editor Lauren Kane Poetry Editor Vijay Seshadri Art Editor Charlotte Strick Southern Editor John Jeremiah Sullivan London Ed
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Peyton Burgess
Sometimes PB to my students, Sack to my friends, and always Pete to my family, my name is Peter Burgundy and I worry that death has been my only inspiration to be a better person—that death has had a way of making life understandable. And oh whoa, ho
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Anthony Veasna So
Always they find us inappropriate, but today especially so. Here we are with nowhere to go and nothing to do, sitting in a rusty pickup truck, the one leaking oil, the one with the busted transmission that sounds like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Her
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Maya C. Popa
There is not one leaf left on that treeon which a bird sits this Christmas morning, the sky heavy with snow that never arrives,the sun itself barely rising. In the overcast nothingness, it’s easy to feel afraid,overlooked by something that was meant
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Paige Jiyoung Moon
This spring, with the world still in on-again, off-again lockdown, our memories of seasons past grow sweeter. The California-based artist Paige Jiyoung Moon makes a practice of recording her memories in paint. Her canvases are ambitious not in scale
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Yohanca Delgado
The widow arrived at LaGuardia on a Sunday, but the rumors about the woman who had rented a big apartment, sight unseen, had taken an earlier flight. We had already reviewed, on many occasions and in hushed tones, in the quiet that comes after long h
The Paris Review1 mnt membacaCooking, Food & Wine
Ocean Vuong
Scraped the last $8.48from the glass jar.Your day’s worth of tips at the nail salon. Enoughfor one hit. Enoughto be good till noon butthese hands alreadyblurring. The money a weird hummingbird caughtin my fingers. I take outthe carton of eggs. Crack
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Three Poems by Sheri Benning
the baby, name lost. 1906. Spring born,almond and blackthorn in bloom. Meadowsweet,chickweed, petals of milk on her lips. Spider-silk saliva from mouth to crab apple fists,on Mother’s lap, the train from Kiev to Minskafter the last harvest in Tiegeno
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Two Poems by Kirmen Uribe
Trotsky for me was ridinghigh up on the back of the tractor Trotsky for me was taking a bath nakedwith my little friend in the bathtub. Trotsky for me was ridinghigh up on the bicycle’s handlebars. Trotsky for me was using ash woodto make arrows like
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Campbell McGrath
1. A storm of buzzards is circling outside the windowof my hospital room, looking south and east across the rivertoward the high-rise construction cranes downtown.They are a regular sight in December, buzzards migratingin particulate vortices, slow-m
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Forrest Gander
Maybe enough light • to score a wave • reflecting moonlight, sand • reflecting moonlight and you • spotting from shore • what you see only • as silhouette against detonating bands • of blue-white effervescence • when the crown of the falling • swell
The Paris Review27 mnt membacaWellness
John Jeremiah Sullivan
When I was small my parents would host a lot of parties. I don’t know if they had more friends then or were just, as people say, “at a more social place in their lives,” but at least once a month there would be a bunch of adults in our apartment, dri
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Allan Gurganus
Allan Gurganus’s prose exemplifies Evelyn Waugh’s belief that writing, all writing, must be regarded as an exercise in the fresh use of language. In his best-selling debut in 1989, the behemoth showstopper Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All (i
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Gjertrud Schnackenberg
Poetry’s “impulse, like electricity, crossing the space, leaves its signature.”—W. S. Graham No wonder that a flash of sparksSpills out from what I touch—the LaserJet, Brimming with static shock,Suspends invisible electron-clouds Across the laser-pap
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Contributors
KENDRA ALLEN is the author of the essay collection When You Learn the Alphabet. A book of poems, The Collection Plate, will be published by Ecco this summer. SHERI BENNING’s fourth collection of poetry, Field Requiem, is forthcoming from Carcanet. RO
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Mary Kuryla
The thing about the shape of a bee, which might be why it is often drawn curved around a flower with the black head bowed over the thorax and the knees tucked in lovely and benign as a comma, lucent wings arching from stripes furred to catch pollen b
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Maxim Osipov
Vnukovo is the smallest, most intimate of Moscow’s airports, and when your flight arrives—especially if it arrives on Saturday at eleven at night—you don’t expect to see much of a crowd. Stamps in the passport, baggage claim—quick and easy. “Where ar
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Pre-order* Your Copy Today At
theparisreview.org/poetsatwork *BOOKS SHIP IN EARLY APRIl The Paris Review is proud to announce the publication of Poets at Work— our latest anthology of interviews. Selected and introduced by poetry editor Vijay Seshadri, the thirteen conversations
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Kwame Anthony Appiah
Fifty years ago, at a harp recital in Gloucestershire, a retired British military officer with a clipped aristo accent came across a brown-skinned teenager. “I say, old chap, do you speak English?” the officer said. As a story in Yale’s New Journal r
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Ron Silliman
from “PARROT EYES LUST” for Elliot Helfer Do potatoes suffer? Would it be newwith a blue pen? This lightweightfuturisticslightly minimalistblack Germanfountain pen The Lamy Safari The alphabetwith my name insertedblack against red the same asCaxton’s
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Tracie Morris
1. There’s a sign near the waterfrontI think it’s advertising cheer:says 400 YEARS, VIRGINIA SPIRITS. A swig. A year ago last night, my dead crowd mean even ceremonyof Jamestown, at the schooner that brought those first here.They think: long tripdid
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Kendra Allen
Foreskin. A default setting. midnight. Dry eyes. Hesitation at an intersection. Premature adulthood. sheets. Freelancing. Yes maybe. knuckles. Hypervigilance. Corn stubs A sucked-in stomach. Syncing. Infantile embroidery. Showtime. The next step. Pri
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ERIN O’KEEFE New and Recent Photographs
There was a triangle in her face. An elbow. A triangle, emerging from a morass of black puffy coats. So many people jammed together, pretending they were alone in space. She tried to press her head backward to escape, but an orange parallelogram pres
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Jeff Dolven
Now is my turn to speak, if Ican claim it, tipping myself forward,letting my tongue fall with a soft,an inward, an almost inaudible click. Now the leaves turn, turn in the wind,tipped by the wind, or the sun, by the windand the rain, by the season, c
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Subhashini Kaligotla
What remains of you beloved to haunt Selflike the tangled script of an ancient kingspeakingacross time: memory-scarscascadingover red rockaddressing arid, unpeopledlands; body-terrainriven, overlaidwith later scripts, later battles foughtin later ton
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Peter Balakian
April 2020 When I came to—crocuses were pushing uppurple in my garden, return of the cooing dove— and when I got out at Penn Station there were no facesalong the tracks— wind blew through 32nd Street with a faint whiff of onionsand hair spray cabs dr
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Dear Reader,
Months before world events made 2020 a remarkable—and remarkably difficult—year, playwright Branden Jacobs-Jenkins and I had a conversation about something that happened in 1997. That year, The Paris Review dedicated its Spring issue to the theater.
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Brian Tierney
Dr. Redacted will tell me not to tell youthis, like this,in a poem: how it’s all right, love, that we don’t loveliving. Even actors don’texactly love the spotlight they move through,as your sister, the actor,has told us; they just need to be litfor n
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Mary Crockett Hill
In my family, a silver cupis called a goblet. A room with books, however small,a library. I had to wait for this—to wade through heart attack and heart attack and heart disease, brain tumor and old age, the mysteries of the body flung back on its own
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Jeff Fearnside
Once I walkedthrough a forest.It was highin the mountains.The air was clear and thin.The stars shone brightly,the outline of the forest canopyin sharp relieflike the backgroundto a stop-motion silhouette fairy tale. The children are awake.Once I knew
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