FICTION | NONFICTION | POETRY |
TRANSLATION
SUBMIT STORE DONATE OPPORTUNITIES INTERVIEWS WRITERS WE PUBLISH
A duck’s disappearance figures in history’s rising action only obliquely. A mass death that only enlivens a larger dramatic structure. It is setting; it is not scene. What pressure does its absence exert on the landscape?
There is a feeling like the liquid at the top of an overfilled glass, taut and quivering. I think of that feeling as my feeling, my go-to.
Upon learning that Louisa May Alcott spent more than a decade moonlighting as a sordid, heady mix of Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Brontë, I dove eagerly into this secret canon. To my surprise, I found neither the shame of a literary author slumming, nor the through-the-motions prose of one writing merely to pay the bills.
