My classroom was on the first floor, next to the nuns' lounge. I used their bathroom to puke in the mornings.
--From Homesick for Another World, a collection of short stories by Ottessa Moshfegh (Penguin, 2017). These lines are from the story "Bettering Myself," which first appeared in The Paris Review.
My husband had warned me about the cameras before we moved to Guangzhou, saying that there would or wouldn’t be video cameras hidden all over our apartment and that someone in the Chinese government would or wouldn’t be watching us at all times. He told me that there was no point in having a password on my computer because the cameras would see what was on my computer screen. That’s how good the cameras that did or did not exist were.
--From "The Cameras," a short story by Jennifer Kronovet, Bennington Review, Issue 6.
Today they are talking on the radio about
how to remember your infant, . . .
--From "Lost Body," a poem by Jordan Rice, The New York Times Magazine (February 10, 2017). "Lost Body" is from Constellarium, Jordan Rice's debut collection of poems (Orison Books, 2016).
In case it's slipped your mind, Dear Sir, let me remind you: I am your wife. I know that this once pleased you and that now, suddenly, it chafes. I know you pretend that I don't exist, and that I never existed, because you don't want to look bad in front of the highbrow people you frequent. I know that leading an orderly life, having to come home in time for dinner, sleeping with me instead of with whomever you want, makes you feel like an idiot.
--From Ties, a novel by Domenico Starnone, translated from the Italian by Jhumpa Lahiri (Europa Editions, 2016). Originally published in Italian as Lacci (Laces) (Einaudi: Torino, Italy, 2014).
That was the summer it rained and rained. I remember the sad doggish smell of my sweater and my shoes sloshing crazily. And in every city, the same scene. A boy stepping into the street and opening an umbrella for a girl keeping dry in the doorway.
--From Dept. of Speculation, a novel by Jenny Offill (Alfred A. Knopf, 2014).
Hélène could not remember having ever experienced a perfect moment. When she was little, she often surprised her parents with her behavior--constantly tidying her room, changing her clothes the moment there was the slightest spot on them, braiding her hair over and over until she obtained an impeccable symmetry; she shuddered with horror when they took her to see Swan Lake because she alone noticed that there was a lack of rigor in the alignment of the dancers, that their tutus did not all drop down together, and that every time there was a ballerina--never the same one--who disrupted the harmony of the movement.
That was the summer it rained and rained. I remember the sad doggish smell of my sweater and my shoes sloshing crazily. And in every city, the same scene. A boy stepping into the street and opening an umbrella for a girl keeping dry in the doorway.
--From Dept. of Speculation, a novel by Jenny Offill (Alfred A. Knopf, 2014).
Hélène could not remember having ever experienced a perfect moment. When she was little, she often surprised her parents with her behavior--constantly tidying her room, changing her clothes the moment there was the slightest spot on them, braiding her hair over and over until she obtained an impeccable symmetry; she shuddered with horror when they took her to see Swan Lake because she alone noticed that there was a lack of rigor in the alignment of the dancers, that their tutus did not all drop down together, and that every time there was a ballerina--never the same one--who disrupted the harmony of the movement.
--From The Most Beautiful Book in the World, a collection of short stories by Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt, translated from the French by Alison Anderson (Europa Editions, 2009). Originally published in French as Odette Toulemonde et autres histoires (Odette Toulemonde and other stories) (Éditions Albin Michel: Paris, France, 2006). These lines are from the story "A Fine Rainy Day."
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