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Manufactured

Posts tagged literature:

A work of art is something produced by a person, but is not that person — it is of her, but is not her. It’s a reach, really — the artist is trying to inhabit, temporarily, a more compact, distilled, efficient, wittier, more true-seeing, precise version of herself — one that she can’t replicate in so-called ‘real’ life, no matter how hard she tries. That’s why she writes: to try and briefly be more than she truly is.

George Saunders

(via explore-blog)

(Source: explore-blog)

If you can still see how you could once have loved a person, you are still in love; an extinct love is always wholly incredible.

Michael Chabon’s short story, “Ocean Avenue,” begins with this line, one I happen to think about on a daily basis. (via contemporaryfiction)

sundoglit:

Issue Three | May 2013

We bring you Issue Three of Sundog Lit. This is a really great issue, and we’re so proud to bring…

View Post

Check out my new story Carlos, Davy, Micah: Teenagers from Mars. Page 41. 

sundoglit:

Issue Three | May 2013

We bring you Issue Three of Sundog Lit. This is a really great issue, and we’re so proud to bring…

View Post

Check out my new story Carlos, Davy, Micah: Teenagers from Mars. Page 41. 

We’ll be posting fiction from  & portions of in-depth interview with Stewart O’Nan soon on our website. 

We’re reviewing proofs for Fiddleblack Annual #1. Late next week Fiddleblack #7 goes up, featuring  & others.

contemporaryfiction:

Johannes Lichtman reviews a new anthology of false document fiction, edited by David Shields and Matthew Vollmer.

image

This is what the real, no-bullshit value of your liberal arts education is supposed to be about: how to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out.

—Revisiting David Foster Wallace’s This Is Water. (via explore-blog)

(Source: , via explore-blog)

contemporaryfiction:

The woman has not spoken to the man in two years. The woman asked her grandfather once how he quit smoking. The woman’s grandfather had smoked every day for thirty years and then one morning he had coughed up blood into the toilet. “I just stopped,” her grandfather had said. This was akin to how the woman had stopped communicating with the man. She had not coughed up blood but she had made a choice between disease and wellness similarly.

contemporaryfiction:

Padgett Powell is a master stylist. Check out a very brief introduction to his work over at Subtropics.

The Pleasure of the Text

by Roland Barthes

   Is not the most erotic portion of a body where the garment drapes? In perversion (which is the realm of textual pleasure) there are no “erogenous zones” (a foolish expression, besides); it is intermittence, as psychoanalysis has so rightly stated, which is erotic: the intermittence of skin flashing between two articles of clothing (trousers and sweater), between two edges (the open-necked shirt, the glove and the sleeve), it is this flash itself which seduces, or rather: the staging of an appearance-as-disappearance.

    The pleasure of the text is not the pleasure of the corporeal striptease or of narrative suspense. In these cases, there is no tear, no edges: a gradual unveiling: the entire excitation takes refuge in the hopeof seeing the sexual organ (schoolboy’s dream) or in knowing the end of the story (novelistic satisfaction). Paradoxically (since it is mass-consumed), this is a far more intellectual pleasure than the other: an Oedipal please (to denude, to know, to learn the origin and the end)… 

Center of the Universe

by Simon Rich

On the first day, God created the heavens and the earth.

“Let there be light,” He said, and there was light. And God saw that it was good. And there was evening—the first night.

On the second day, God separated the oceans from the sky. “Let there be a horizon,” He said. And lo: a horizon appeared and God saw that it was good. And there was evening—the second night.

On the third day, God’s girlfriend came over and said that He’d been acting distant lately.

“I’m sorry,” God said. “Things have been crazy this week at work.”

He smiled at her, but she did not smile back. And God saw that it was not good.

“I never see you,” she said.

“That’s not true,” God said. “We went to the movies just last week.”

And she said, “Lo. That was last month.”

And there was evening—a tense night.


Read more http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2012/01/09/120109sh_shouts_rich#ixzz1itf6Nm9Q
The Big One
a story by Ezra Carlsen

The Big One

a story by Ezra Carlsen

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