Shiki wrote haiku—tens of thousands of haiku—elevating himself to the immortal ranks of Bashō, Issa, and his personal hero, Buson. However, Shiki did not want to go back to the past and its masters; he wanted to reinvent what he believed was a dying art.
(reviews)
I held my magazines in my lap and looked longingly out the window, believing myself to be a melancholic character in the movie of my life.
(fiction)
Her aunts—a year apart and almost identical in appearance—ticked all the boxes of conventional postcolonial standards of Bangladeshi beauty. They had the “fair and lovely” smooth skin, the black voluminous hair that touched their waists, and eyes with lashes that could put a doe to shame.
(fiction)
She returned home when her village was liberated after six months of occupation. Her house greeted her with a collapsed wall.
(translations)
It was late in the evening and dark, the dark river with its lights passing by, reflections from the Seine travelling across the ceiling, sliding along the walls.
“One of the biggest things that I think about when I’m writing is trusting the reader,” Giada Scodellaro tells interviewer Erik Noonan.
He rejects the idea that Humankind descended from the apes, otherwise why has he, the gorilla, remained at the animal stage?
(poetry)
The latest in our FORTHCOMING series of excerpts from new books
“The rooms become increasingly more expensive, as one gets closer to the Abyss.”
(fiction)
Another Chicago Magazine 