He was coming back. He looked at the ash with his eyes half closed, as if he were calculating the mouthful of smoke he was about to release. I couldn’t contain myself. I gave him a kiss on the mouth.
Founded in 1977 at Columbia University's School of the Arts
He was coming back. He looked at the ash with his eyes half closed, as if he were calculating the mouthful of smoke he was about to release. I couldn’t contain myself. I gave him a kiss on the mouth.
Out of the new season’s smooth sweets Trees break into leaves, birds into song, Each in its own odd tongue of tweets, In verse which uniquely trips along
With Fjalir (Planks, 2013), a collection of poetry and woodcut prints, Tóroddur Poulsen earned the Faroese nomination for the Nordic Council Literature Prize in 2014. An English translation of Fjalir is forthcoming from Forlagið í Støplum in the autumn of…
I ask myself why he doesn’t hear them. Why only me. I feel somewhat panicked about surviving, about ending up alone. I don’t want to be different. Ian smiles, happy about our future plans. He doesn’t know that only an…
Blessed are those who, after hearing this sermon, may apply all of their childish fervor on their mature breasts to wish victory to the Brazilian team in this and in all future World Cups, just as this disenchanted sermon maker—still…
God is in the details!” declared Volokhonsky. “Some say it’s the devil,” Pevear added.
I killed him in sound mind and clear memory, killed him conscientiously, with conviction, cold-heartedly, without a shred of remorse, fear or doubt. If it was in your power to raise him from the dead—I would repeat my crime again.
If a joke is to survive the journey into another language, if it is to hit the mark even when its cultural context can no longer be taken for granted, its point may need to be adjusted or somehow re-sharpened.
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