A poem by George Oppen, a film written by Justine Triet and Arthur Harari, and short stories by Claire-Louise Bennett, Saïd Sayrafiezadeh, and Souvankham Thammavongsa

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We saw, our heads
Ringing under the stars we walked
To where it would have wet our feet
Had it been water
—From "The Forms of Love" by George Oppen, reprinted by The Academy of American Poets. This segment was highlighted on their social media on April 24, 2024, during National Poetry Month. "The Forms of Love" was included in New Collected Poems of George Oppen (New Directions Publishing, 2008).

At the bottom of the street was the common and that was one of the few places I could handle at certain times of the day. Wearing a long green velvet skirt that mingled with the gently surging grass, I'd walk slowly, sedately even, around the ponds, dispensing bread along the way so that the ducks would stay with me. I would have been ill at ease anywhere, I expect, but London has a way of embellishing a minor dread so that it takes on pathological and seductive proportions.
—From "Invisible Bird," a short story by Claire-Louise Bennett, The New Yorker (May 30, 2022), pp. 54-59.

Somebody said, of course money doesn't make you happy, but it's still better to cry in a car than in a subway.
—From Anatomy of a Fall (2023), a French film originally titled Anatomie d'une chute, which was directed by Justine Triet and written by Justine Triet and Arthur Harari. It stars Sandra Hüller, Swann Arlaud, and Milo Machado-Graner. It's a crime drama, split between English and French, and has won a slew of awards including an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay.

"Just be careful," they told me, but they didn't offer any follow-up, and partly because I knew they were suggesting something that I didn't really want to hear, and because I knew this would be the best job I'd ever be able to find, I never asked them to elaborate. Before leaving, they'd say, "Don't stay too late."
—From "Nondisclosure Agreement," a short story by Saïd Sayrafiezadeh, The New Yorker (May 9, 2022), pp. 62-68.

The evening I actually met Miss Emily's son, I was finishing up my shift when I saw him come in. He seemed real glamorous, and I hadn't seen someone like that before so close up, looking right back at me.
—From "Trash," a story by Souvankham Thammavongsa, The New Yorker (June 13, 2022), pp. 58-60.