What is the Milan Review?
The Milan Review is a publishing house and design studio that I founded with my friend and current Milan Review Art Director, Riccardo Trotta. It is based in Milan, but we count on the help of a few good friends in Paris, Berlin, LA and New York. We publish a…
My story ‘Half Bad’ has just been published by The Brooklyner.
My drawing for “Someone’s Knocking at My Door” by LÁSZLÓ KRASZNAHORKAI in the New York Times.
My little, unbearably brilliant essay about names is in the latest issue of the Threepenny Review, in which you can also read work by Alberto Manguel, Javier Marias, Nikolai Leskov, and others.
I contain multitudes of names. We all do. Take your legal name, then add all the coddling nicknames and childish taunts, and your mother’s maiden name, which hovers somewhere by you like a ghostly penumbra, and you will end up with a lengthy sequence much like one of those demented royals from a mythic, tiny kingdom. But all of it is you and yours.
I’ve just created a website that will be a portal for my writing - fiction and non. Check it out.
I’m building a wall of books around myself; or, Saturday night.
Dorada, or Gilthead Bream.
The Danish seafront.
What an astonishing thing a book is. It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.
By Sonia Johnson
As Lee Konstantinou mentioned when he introduced me, I spent a week this May with the William Gaddis papers at Washington University’s special collection. While there I found a list of “style notes” sent to Robert Gottlieb, Gaddis’s editor at Knopf some time in 1974 (the…
Toward evening you hear the cry of the bats.
Two black horses bound in the pasture,
The red maple rustles,
The walker along the road sees ahead the small
Nuts and young wine taste delicious,
Delicious: to stagger drunk into the darkening woods.
Village bells, painful to hear, echo through the black
Dew forms on the face.
Translated by James Wright & Robert Bly
GEORG TRAKL (1887-1914)
Come up, you fearful Jesuit!
Bloomsday nr 108.