A couple of years ago I joined one of those clubs where they teach you how to knock the shit out of other people. The first lesson is how to get the shit knocked out of yourself. The first lesson is all there is. It lasts between eighty and a hundred years, depending on your initial shit content.
Glemmingebro, 6 July
Today it is sunny and warm, and there is no football on TV, so we plan to go to the beach, for the first time this summer. The problem is that the children don’t want to go. Once they are there, they think it is wonderful, and then I say, now remember for next time, so that it won’t all be so difficult. Yes, yes, they say. Now it is the next time, and they don’t want to go.
Shirley Hazzard, who died on December 12 at the age of 85, wrote two collections of short stories, four novels, and three works of nonfiction. FSG published her last two works: in 2000, a memoir about Graham Greene, Greene on Capri, and, in 2003, her National Book Award-winning novel, The Great Fire.
Powerfully alive, honest, and at times deliciously satirical, The Moravian Night explores the mind and memory of an aging writer, tracking the anxieties, angers, fears, and pleasures of a life inseparable from the recent history of Central Europe. In crystalline prose, Peter Handke traces and interrogates his own thoughts and perceptions while endowing the world with a mythic dimension. As Jeffrey Eugenides writes, “Handke’s sharp eye is always finding a strange beauty amid this colorless world.” The Moravian Night is at once an elegy for the lost and forgotten and a novel of self-examination and uneasy discovery, from one of world literature’s great voices.
He was just tight enough and just familiar enough with the house to be able to go out into the kitchen alone, apparently to get ice, but actually to sober up a little; he was not quite enough a friend of the family to pass out on the living-room couch. He left the party behind without reluctance, the group by the piano singing “Stardust,” his hostess talking earnestly to a young man with thin clean glasses and a sullen mouth; he walked guardedly through the dining-room where a little group of four or five people sat on the stiff chairs reasoning something out carefully among themselves; the kitchen doors swung abruptly to his touch, and he sat down beside a white enamel table, clean and cold under his hand. He put his glass on a good spot in the green pattern and looked up to find that a young girl was regarding him speculatively from across the table.
Visits with my father often include a ceremony, a unique sort of family séance. The tradition goes something like this: An ornate Victorian box is carefully carried from its corner resting place into the center of the living room. The box is placed on a table as my father and the rest of us—his children and grandchildren—gather around it.
The library was pitch-dark when we arrived. We turned on the lights just long enough to arrange our things and hit the sack— separate sacks. The following morning marked the first of many spent exploring West Wind together. The boxes in dry storage represented but a small fraction of the library; there were still thousands that needed to be sorted. This day would be spent gathering the last of the rarest books and shuttling them up to North Conway for safekeeping.
William came up out of the mortuary feeling blown out, depressed. He could not say if Charlotte Reckitt had deserved her end and he told himself he did not care but it was not true. He thought of her ravaged scalp and the tufts of hair and blood on it and how her body had been cut up and the legs still, for god’s sake, missing. Then he could not stop himself and thought of his daughters in Chicago, thought of Margaret. Swore under his breath and clapped his hands on his sleeves as if to dislodge the reek of the dead and stepped out into the fog.
On a February morning in the year 1933 Andreas Egger lifted the dying goatherd Johannes Kalischka, known to all the valley dwellers as Horned Hannes, off his sodden and rather sour-smelling pallet to carry him down to the village along the three-kilometre mountain path that lay buried beneath a thick layer of snow.
On August 29, 1957, Candida sent me a note that read, “ Here is the script of CATCH 18 by Joseph Heller about which we talked yesterday. I’ve been watching Heller ever since the publication of Chapter 1 in New World Writing about a year ago. He’s published a good bit in The Atlantic Monthly, Esquire, etc. I’ll tell you more about him when I see you at lunch next week. As ever, Candida.” About seventy-five pages of manuscript came with it, and I was knocked out by the voice, the humor, the anger. We offered Joe five hundred dollars as an option payment. This was only months after Jack Goodman’s death, and the editorial department had developed no real modus operandi; I suppose I just said “I want to do this” and there was nobody interested enough to say no. Joe and Candida decided to wait until there was enough of a manuscript to warrant an actual contract.
Read an excerpt from Jonathan Safran Foer’s Here I Am, a monumental new novel from the bestselling author of Everything Is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
One of the first chairs you need, when furnishing a new home, is a dining chair. You can make do with cushions on the floor instead of an easy chair, as I did in my first apartment, and you can read a book or watch television lying in bed, but if you are going to eat at a table you need something to sit on. Early in our marriage and shortly after we had finished building our house, my wife and I decided to replace our collection of beat-up side chairs, accumulated separately over the years, with proper dining chairs. I knew what I wanted.
Isabelle Eberhardt never converted to Islam. For her, it would have been a redundant formality: from her early youth, she was possessed by an unshakable belief that she had been born a Muslim. Among the first Western writers to describe the life of Islam from the inside, as a believer, Eberhardt came from origins tangled in mysteries that will never be unraveled.
Bernadette Murphy was living in the South of France, recuperating from an illness that kept her at home, when she decided to investigate the mysteries surrounding the painter Vincent Van Gogh. With no formal training as a researcher or historian, she set out to piece together everything she could about the formal painter, using local archives and the long memories of the locals. In the process, she uncovered new information and details about Van Gogh’s life and put them into a book, Van Gogh’s Ear. Here, we follow along with her as she looks for the true identity of “Rachel”, the young woman Van Gogh was rumored to have given his ear to.
Máni Steinn, a young, queer boy living in Reykjavik in 1918, is fascinated by the cinema. His queerness, and his city, put him on the fringes of a society that is itself at the fringes of the world—at what seems like history’s most tumultuous, perhaps ultimate moment. With the threat of influenza stalking the city, Máni must decide whether to retreat into the fantasyland of the movie theater or try to embrace the society that has rejected him
Moonstone: The Boy Who Never Was is Sjón’s most realistic, accessible, and heartfelt work yet.
In curating a collection of Ted Hughes’ poems about animals, Alice Oswald has responded to one of the themes Hughes saw in his own poetry—the “vivid life of their own,” the transformation of nature into language and vice versa. Here, she outlines the process of that curation in the introduction to the book.
Elie Wiesel was an Auschwitz and Buchenwald survivor who, through his more than fifty books, countless speeches and op-eds, and tireless activism, became a voice for the voiceless. When he won a Nobel Peace Prize in 1986, they called him “one of the most important spiritual leaders and guides in an age when violence, repression and racism continue to characterise the world.” His death, on July 2, marks the passing of an important writer and humanitarian. His most widely read book, Night, is the account of his time at Auschwitz and Buchenwald as a young man.
“A master of both distilled insight and utter nonsense” (The Believer), Ian Frazier is one of the most gifted chroniclers of contemporary America. Hogs Wild assembles a decade’s worth of Frazier’s finest essays and reportage, and demonstrates the irrepressible passions and artful digressions that distinguish his enduring body of work. Frazier’s new book unearths the joys of inquiry without agenda, curiosity without calculation. We’re pleased to share “Bus Ride,” which originally was published in The New Yorker.
Theodore Roosevelt would have liked Valerie Naylor, the superintendent of his park.
She is formidable upon first appearance in full uniform and it is hard not to be intimidated. But her side smile gives her away.
Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle needs no introduction, but we’ll give you one anyway. In Book Four of his celebrated, hypnotic six-volume novel, Knausgaard has been hired as a schoolteacher in Håjford, a tiny fishing village in the northern reaches of Norway, where, living alone for the first time, he’s overtaken by his teenage obsessions and overwhelmed by the Arctic’s hibernal darkness. Jeffrey Eugenides describes the spirit of Book Four as “a cry from a kid with an amazing record collection who dreams of being a writer, written by the great writer he finally becomes.” What follows are the opening pages of Book Four, now out in paperback.