Novels by Tove Ditlevsen and F. Scott Fitzgerald, stories by Marianne Villanueva and Ágota Kristóf, and poetry by Karen Solie

~
Lise had felt an impotent rage when, six months earlier, she was informed that Vilhelm had become fat. Mille had force-fed him like a goose, stuffed and basted him and buried all his exquisite, dark thoughts under mountains of liver paté. With that, Lise's Vilhelm was dead and gone, and Mille filled her with disgust. Anger is always directed at the mistress, but once Lise annihilated the whole world, she reconciled with her too.
—From Vilhelm's Room, a novel by Tove Ditlevsen, translated from the Danish by Sophia Hersi Smith and Jennifer Russell (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2026). This book was originally published in Danish in Copenhagen, Denmark, as Vilhelms værelse (Gyldendal, 1975). The English translation was first published in Great Britain (Penguin Books, 2025). This segment is from page 6 of the hardcover published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux in the United States. The audiobook's narrator, Helen Bang, is excellent, but I personally found the audiobook a little hard to follow on its own, especially at the beginning. If you listen to the audiobook, I'd recommend reading a print copy of the book along with it. 

The sponsor of the story was a white-haired woman in full evening dress, obviously a relic of the previous evening, for a tiara still clung to her head and a discouraged orchid expired from her shoulder. . . . on the other side, a young woman lay under a roof of umbrellas making out a list of things from a book open on the sand. Her bathing suit was pulled off her shoulders and her back, a ruddy, orange brown, set off by a string of creamy pearls, shone in the sun.
—From Tender Is the Night, a novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1934). These lines are from page 6 of a 1982 paperback published by Scribner. 

She had been married quite a long time, almost 18 years, to a man who, in the last year or two, had begun to spend most of his time watching TV. 
—From Residents of the Deep, a collection of short stories by Marianne Villanueva (Unsolicited Press, 2025). This segment is from "The Hand" (pp. 64-74), which won the Juked Fiction Prize and was published in Juked in the Winter 2007/2008 issue. My other favorite story was "Bodies" (172-173), which was first published in Vice-Versa in Summer 2021. 

There is also the old man who wanders around the park and claims that he sculpted the dog and that, one day when hugging it—since he loved the animal dearly—he was turned to stone.
          When asked how it is that he is still there, nevertheless, alive, in the flesh, he answers simply that he is waiting for the next train north.
          No one has the heart to tell him that there are no more northbound trains, or trains bound anywhere.
—From I Don't Care, a little collection of flash fiction by Ágota Kristóf, translated from the French by Chris Andrews (New Directions, 2024). The book was originally published in French as C'est égal: Nouvelles (Éditions du Seuil, 2004). My favorite stories were "A Northbound Train" (pp. 23-25), excerpted above, and "Wrong Numbers" (51-57). 

of a back bent low, hands
in the dirt, working
at the fasteners. 
—From Wellwater, a collection of poems by Karen Solie (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2025). This is from "The Barrens" (80-81). One of my other favorites was "The Grasslands."

A poem by Jhio Jan Navarro, a novel by Vivek Shanbhag, graphic lit by David Small, and stories by Vikram Ramakrishnan and James Keith Smith

~
When the sun sets 
peasants set free 
the snake. 
—From "From the Remains," a poem by Jhio Jan Navarro, translated from the Filipino by Eric Abalajon, Hayden's Ferry Review, Issue 78 (2026). 

None of us remembers when exactly the ant menace started. In the beginning, we'd spot an ant here and there, but after a while they took over the house.
—From Ghachar Ghochar, a short novel by Vivek Shanbhag, translated from the Kannada by Srinath Perur (Penguin Books, 2017). It first appeared in English as an excerpt in Granta. This is from page 43 of the paperback. 

But when, with no pause, the orchestra strikes up a certain brassy waltz—the ceremonial introduction to that old act "The Tiger in Vogue"—my pleasure abruptly ends. I know what is about to happen. 
—From The Werewolf at Dusk: And Other Stories, graphic literature with illustrations by David Small (Liveright Publishing Corporation, 2024). The book is comprised of three stories: "The Werewolf at Dusk" by Lincoln Michel, "A Walk in the Old City" by David Small, and "The Tiger in Vogue" by Jean Ferry (originally published in French as "Le Tigre Mondain," in 1948). These lines, on page 120 of the hardcover, are from "The Tiger in Vogue." 

Baba emptied the fishing net out onto the catamaran the same day he woke up from a yearlong slumber. 
—From "Eggs," a story by Vikram Ramakrishnan, SAND, Issue 21 (online and in print). 

My therapy dog, Vincent, suffers from anxiety and depression. 
—From "Therapy Dog," a story by James Keith Smith, The Berlin Literary Review (April 2026.) 

Short stories by Lauren Groff, novels by Maria Stepanova and Solvej Balle, a poem by Stephen Ruffus, and a documentary by Jota Mun

~
Aunt Maisie had packed his suitcase the night before and left it near the front door, and so he dressed himself without turning on the light and came out and dropped the pajamas on top of the suitcase. She was in the kitchen, banging the pans around.
—From Brawler, an electric short story collection by Lauren Groff (Riverhead Books, 2026). These sentences are from the beginning of "To Sunland," which appeared in The New Yorker in 2022. This is the third story in Brawler (51-78); it's one of my favorites and also one of several that I had already read prior to picking up this collection. Lauren Groff narrated her own audiobook, which was excellent. The other notable thing about this collection is the physical book itself. Jaya Miceli's jacket design, which features art by Vladimir Dunjić, is stunning. It's worth buying the hardcover of Brawler for the dust jacket and endpapers alone. 

When M was a child, her mother told her that a long time ago the signs on the doors of the metro stations in her native city had the terrifying words There is No Way Out etched into the glass, as if passengers were being advised to abandon all hope. By the time M had grown up enough to travel on the metro herself, the same prohibition was phrased more usually as No Exit or Closed, and although it meant much the same, the sense of frightening hopelessness had disappeared—that's how much the choice of words matters.
—From The Disappearing Act, a slim novel by Maria Stepanova, translated from the Russian by Sasha Dugdale (New Directions, 2026). It is also available in English from Fitzcarraldo Editions. These wonderful lines are from page 83 of the New Directions paperback. 

I have met someone who remembers. . . . His name is Henry Dale, and I don't need to tell him that time has ground to a halt. He already knows. 
—From On the Calculation of Volume III, a novel by Solvej Balle, translated from the Danish by Sophia Hersi Smith and Jennifer Russell (New Directions, 2025). This is the third book in the series of seven and has been published by arrangement with Copenhagen Literary Agency. Originally published as Om udregning af rumfang III (Pelagraf, 2022). 

I have a brand-new spine
built from an Erector Set,
the surgeon’s favorite tool kit.
—From "Home from the Hospital," a poem by Stephen Ruffus, New World Writing Quarterly (April 19, 2026). 

I was born in Seoul, South Korea, and I grew up in the Netherlands. 
—From Between Goodbyes, a documentary directed by Jota Mun, airing on season 38 of the show POV on PBS. This documentary is about adoption more generally and these relationships more specifically, but it is also about language, culture, communication, and miscommunication. 

A poem by Ed Madden, a short story by Sigrid Nunez, a novel by Lily King, and graphic work by Elisa Macellari and Aidan Koch

~
My husband, the blue room, the bright room, best china, 
best silver lifted from a box in the closet, . . . 
—From "My husband who is not my husband," a poem by Ed Madden (2014). 

He wanted to laugh, but the woman was being earnest. She was young—early thirties, he guessed—with an unremarkable face except for her eyes, so dark you could barely distinguish iris from pupil. . . . Kiss Me Deadly red lipstick, and a long-sleeved forest-green dress of some suède-like fabric that looked vintage. His gaze kept being drawn to her gleaming manicure, each copper-colored nail like a Japanese beetle.
—From "Greensleeves," a short story by Sigrid Nunez, The New Yorker (September 9, 2024), pp. 44-49. 

The light was different than in Thailand. Or perhaps the dry and dusty landscape somehow lessened its intensity. 
—From Papaya Salad, a graphic novel by Elisa Macellari, translated from the Italian by Carla Roncalli di Montorio (Dark Horse Books, a division of Dark Horse Comics, 2020). This is from page 108 of the hardcover. 

The villagers here used to all be animists . . . they believed the forest was alive.  
—From Spiral and Other Stories, a dreamlike collection of comics by Aidan Koch (New York Review Comics, 2024). This is from "A New Year." 

You knew I'd write a book about you someday. You said once that I'd dredged up the whole hit parade minus you.
—From Heart the Lover, a novel by Lily King (Grove Press, 2026). 

Novels by Min Jin Lee and Elisa Shua Dusapin, graphic memoirs by David Small and Liana Finck, and poetry by Andrea Cohen

~
In 1910, when Hoonie was twenty-seven years old, Japan annexed Korea. The fisherman and his wife [were] thrifty and hardy peasants . . . When the rent for their house was raised again, the couple moved out of their bedroom and slept in the anteroom near the kitchen to increase the number of lodgers.
—From Pachinko, a novel by Min Jin Lee (Grand Central Publishing, 2017). This is from page 3 of the trade paperback. I also listened to the audiobook, narrated by Allison Hiroto, which was excellent. 

The mere moving of her fork a half-inch to the right spelled dread at the dinner table. . . . Because she never spoke her mind, we never knew what this was all about. We two boys didn't, at any rate.  
—From Stitches, a graphic memoir by David Small (W. W. Norton & Company, 2009). These lines are from page 16 of the hardcover. 

It's a long book, more than 300 pages, and the artwork is a real standout. The illustrations are detailed and evocative. 

Also, you are hungry. You are so, so hungry. (And thirsty.) 
—From How to Baby: A No-Advice-Given Guide to Motherhood, a graphic memoir by Liana Finck (The Dial Press, 2024). 

Though these are both graphic memoirs, and they're both books that focus on parents and parenting, they're very different in both tone and content. Stitches is much darker and more serious. How to Baby is lighter and more humorous. 

Something went wrong.
That's what the machine
says when I call to say
my paper didn't arrive.  
—From The Sorrow Apartments, a collection of poetry by Andrea Cohen (Four Way Books, 2024). This is from "Something," pp. 28-30 in the paperback (first published, with an audio recording, in The Adroit Journal, Issue 39). My other favorites were "Adjacent," page 9 (Jewish Currents); "The Sorrow Apartments," 41-44 (The Arkansas International); and "Historical Register," p. 78. 

The rain was coming down so hard I missed the sign for the village. It had smudged the tire tracks, flattened out the ruts. In the end I couldn't see where I was going and had to pull over to the side of the road. All that water hammering down on the hood. 
—From The Old Fire, a novel by Elisa Shua Dusapin, translated from the French by Aneesa Abbas Higgins (Summit Books, 2026). Originally published in France as Le vieil incendie (Éditions Zoé, 2023). 

Short stories by Joy Williams, micro-memoirs by Beth Ann Fennelly, and novels by Vivek Shanbhag, Michael Cunningham, and Ben Lerner

~
The driver and I got a late start. I usually decide on these excursions the night before, but it was late in the morning when I informed the friend who was coming to visit me for the weekend that I had to cancel . . . 
—From The Pelican Child, a collection of stories by Joy Williams (Knopf, 2025). This is the beginning of the first story, "Flour." 

Ideas like independent thinking and liberal values are all fine in the abstract, but when your child begins to rebel at home, they turn into hot ghee in the mouth—too good to spit out, too painful to swallow.
—From Sakina's Kiss, a novel by Vivek Shanbhag, translated from the Kannada by Srinath Perur (McNally Editions, 2025). Originally published in the Kannada language as Sakinala Muttu in Heggodu, India (Akshara Prakashana, 2021). First published in English in Gurgaon, India (Penguin Random House India, 2023). The line above is from page 57 of the McNally paperback.

When Robbie starts downstairs, from his place to Isabel and Dan's, he finds Isabel on the stairs, sitting with her knees pressed together and her arms wrapped around her knees, as if to make the smallest possible package of herself.
—From Day, a novel by Michael Cunningham (Random House, 2023). This sentence is from page 13 of the hardcover.

I was falling asleep on the train. I was going to interview Thomas, who had just turned ninety. My seat was facing opposite the direction of travel, making it difficult to read his latest book, which I was holding in my hand. It upsets my stomach if I try to read while I'm looking the wrong way—or, as my ten-year-old, Eva, put it on a train to Lublin last summer, if I am "facing the past."
—From Transcription, a novel by Ben Lerner (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2026). I liked the audiobook, too, which was narrated by Seth Numrich.

There wasn't much to do after we'd strolled the porch and ridden a carriage, hence you begged Dad for money so we could hit the tourist drag, but even you didn't think he'd hand over—alongside the usual admonition to look after your little sister—a twenty.
—From The Irish Goodbye, micro-memoirs by Beth Ann Fennelly (W. W. Norton & Company, 2026). This line is from "Dad Gave Us Twenty Dollars, Which Was a Lot in 1979." It was originally published in Notre Dame Review, and it appears in The Irish Goodbye on pages 28 and 29 in the hardcover. 

The Spring 2026 issue of the Apple Valley Review

~
The Spring 2026 issue of the Apple Valley Review features a short story by Mary Luna; flash fiction by Lisa Beech Hartz, Wendy Elizabeth Wallace, Jon Acheson, and Kimmy Chang; a memoir by John Picard; and poetry by Julia Lisella, Jackson Burgess, Joshua Tilton, John Minczeski, Sambhunath Chattopadhyay (translated from the Bengali by Kingshuk Sarkar), Renee Emerson, and Igor Monsellato. The cover photograph is by Tim Mossholder.

The Apple Valley Review is a semiannual online literary journal. The current issue, previous issues, subscription information, and complete submission guidelines are available at www.applevalleyreview.org.