Judging from popular discourse, the novel is in serious jeopardy, perhaps even an endangered artform, having been beset by a myriad of threats that include the advent of the digital age and a

It’s abundantly clear that Gass sweat blood over this novel, every word chosen with the utmost care, a master at work.

Like, what the fuck is this dude’s problem?

A Review of Alexandra Naughton’s Sick of Being Inside Myself

I first read Wave of Blood in February. Then, I could feel the winter, but not its cold. What I felt instead was warmth: the warmth of knowing. The overwhelm, even, of knowing. The knowledge I had was

Known for editing Fence fiction and co-founding Cash 4 Gold Books, Harris Lahti’s debut prose, Foreclosure Gothic presents itself with highs and lows, the underside of the once-coined-and-believed

If I read Pan before I started taking Lexapro I would’ve cried.

448.

The East German dramaturge Heiner Müller adopted Brecht’s notion of Kopien (German for ‘copying’ or ‘sampling’), the practice of regarding texts by others as material to be used, imitated,

As weird and wild and beautiful and filthy as Venice Beach itself, Jessamyn Violet's new novel, Venice Peach, has everything I want in books about Los Angeles: Beautiful imagery, characters that are

I like crazy. I like the monomaniacal Captain Ahab, the deranged Humbert Humbert, the murderous Raskolnikov, the obsessed Heathcliff, the serial killers Patrick Bateman and Tom Ripley, the psychopath

He warned me once about being all-in with poetry.

In Crow’s version, Proverbs become advice on how to tell if someone gives good head.

But in this Freudian foreshadowing, Toto doesn’t quite realize that he’s far from Catholic school, with its rules and fall-in-line rigidity.

Is John Doe a writer, or just a content machine?

Adam Berlin’s collection of stories, All Around They’re Taking Down the Lights, opens with an anonymous man standing in the front of the mirror and practicing poses.

Richard Gere doing low-key

I was pleased beyond all measure at finally reading what I had been avoiding reading.

Lippens, like most writers and artists in general, occupies this space slightly distanced from the commotion of the world.

Sheila Heti has a bad memory. She’s sitting on the stage of the Mark Taper Auditorium in the Los Angeles Central Library, wearing a velvet jumpsuit with gold tendrils and black lace tights. Heti tells

To a degree rarely rivaled, Sean Kilpatrick lives for words. Tantrums is a testament to the last twenty years of his life, and includes absolutely batshit scripts, joyfully brutal fiction, and

Bitter Water Opera is one of the most beautiful books I’ve ever read.

Molly, in its three hundred and twelve pages, transcends time and space, life and death.

Booze, Bullshit & Buttfucking is one of those books you can only describe with negative adjectives, despite your enjoyment of it. It’s quick and easy and invigorating in the way stimulants often

Part I of the book is titled Forest. 

She wanders a Sisyphean circuit around Berlin: to meetings with immigration lawyers, uninspiring parties, lame poetry readings.

“To be inside of someone's mind has to be the sexiest thing in the world.”