Kenzaburo Oe on winning the Nobel Prize: “One earns a kind of currency that one can use in a much wider realm. But for the author, nothing changes.”
New fiction: Jesse Ball on early death, György Dragomán on the end of the world, and Graham Joyce on war.
New poems by Louise Glück, Steven Gizitsky, and Bob Hicok.
Liao Yiwu returns to China's lower depths: “Everyone stood up and began to applaud rhythmically while saying in unison, The communal kitchen is good, we have excellent food. Before their slogan shouting ended, several people collapsed to the floor—they were too weak to stand up for so long.”
Plus photographs by Nicolás Haro and a debut story from Alistair Morgan.
David Grossman on the art of fiction: “I take literature seriously. You're dealing with explosives.”
August Kleinzahler on Robert Frost: “his voice is attractively American: just your average metaphysical New Hampshire dirt farmer, nothin' fancy.”
New stories from Stephen King, J. Robert Lennon, and Richard Price.
Fall poetry featuring August Kleinzahler, David Lehman, Marilyn Chin, and Edward Nobles.
Plus Pablo Escobar's life in photographs, doodles from the notebooks of James Merrill, and debut fiction from Danielle Evans.
Norman Mailer on the art of fiction: “To my mind, it's not worth writing a novel unless you're tackling something where your chances of success are open. You can fail.”
Fiction from André Aciman: “American women are like beautiful manor houses with lavish artwork and spacious rooms. But the lights are always out.”
New translations of Baudelaire: “I am like the king of a rainy kingdom . . . Nothing makes me gladder, gentler, more prone to falconry / than my dying people.”
Plus a story by Uzodinma Iweala, a newly discovered poem by William Carlos Williams, photographs by Raymond Depardon, and more.
Harry Mathews on “the idiotic thing that aspiring young writers are usually told: write about yourself. Don't imitate literary models. Of course, imitating literary models is the best thing one can do.”
Jorge Semprún on the art of fiction: “when I got back from Buchenwald in 1945, I did want to write. I longed for it, to be honest, but strangely enough I found it impossible.”
Ryszard KapuÅ›ciÅ„ski travels through Africa: “In the afternoon the shadows lengthen, start to overlap, then darken and finally turn to black. . . . People come alive then . . . they greet one another, converse, clearly happy that they have somehow managed to endure the quotidian cataclysm.”
Plus a new story by Benjamin Percy, debut fiction by Karl Taro Greenfeld, and the spring poetry folio.