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

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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

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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

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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.