the toucan w/ the tidy mind who handles distribution at the paris review

Hamrah writes to a tub of over entertained frogs warming in shitty media bathwater he wants to drop a toaster oven into.

You absolutely cannot do Finnish word for word. It would be garbage.

It is a drive David identifies with, one that draws him towards those who do not understand or adhere to the manufactured code of conduct of society.

She did not know her future husband owned a gun, but he briefly served and so it makes a sudden kind of sense.

The human impulse towards self-documentation is everywhere once you start looking for it.

Shadow Ticket perhaps traces, through the suppleness of form, the attitudes and semiotics of pre-emergent fascism.

I now realized that for thirty years I'd had an imaginary Pietsch perched on my shoulder, and as I reworked sentences I kept (unconsciously) turning to him and asking, "How about now? Would you take i...

I was very disappointed to find that the book read as if the contents of MacMahon’s collected ESPN articles were dumped into a large language model, and directed to write a 300-plus page book about Lu...

Stealth is the first step into progress.

And he’s impure and I hate him and I blast him with peas from my catapult-spoon.

Baglin, Dean, Barkan, Mahdavi

You can wake up to someone day after day and still they’ll appear disfigured somehow.

Early folklore said vampires could attack victims through dream visitation.

If a shared appreciation of culture is a means of expressing these desires covertly, Our Evenings suggests that it can also prove treacherous.

Logic doesn’t govern the decision to procreate. Nor does it necessarily govern the decision not to procreate.

Will the end of humanity be the human invention of an intelligence greater than itself?

I thought eventually Jo-Ann Fabrics would stop feeling like a translated Jo-Ann Fabrics, parallel to but separate from the source.

A beautiful and moving depiction of Laughner as a tragic poet amidst the end of the industrial empire of which Cleveland and Northeast Ohio were a microcosm.

There are nefarious forces at work in the sphere of taste.

The biohybrid robot can survive extreme conditions, including radiation, say scientists.

Wait for the credits to stop rolling, that’s when the real stuff begins.

For Mammoth, it’s language that lubricates the violent and oppressive machine-city, and has thus betrayed her.

Maksymchuk’s Orphic poetics move through the verbal katabasis of decapitation, defamiliarization, damnation.

At once an assembly line and the interior of a cathedral.

Yellowface fixates too much on its protagonist’s personal vendetta to make any provocative assertions about publishing’s fetish for a certain kind of “diverse” voice.

“The dreamer’s expression passes from ecstasy to agony and back again. A few hallucinatory moments later, the fireworks go off.”

Trying, once again, to write.