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. 

A documentary film by Loira Limbal, fiction by Natsuko Imamura, Laura Imai Messina, and Banana Yoshimoto, and poetry by Sharon Olds

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Through the Night is a cinema verité portrait of three working New York mothers whose lives intersect at a 24-hour daycare center: a mother working the overnight shift as an essential worker at a hospital; another holding down three jobs to support her family; and a woman who for over two decades has cared for the children of parents with nowhere else to turn.
—From promotional materials for Through the Night, a documentary film by Loira Limbal. It aired locally on PBS on the series POV. The website for the documentary contains current links if you would like to rent or buy the film. 

On certain days, I've seen the Woman in the Purple Skirt purchase her cream bun from the bakery, walk through the shopping district, and head straight for the park. The time is just past three in the afternoon. The evergreen oaks that border the south side of the park provide shade for the Exclusively Reserved Seat. The Woman in the Purple Skirt sits down in the middle of the bench and proceeds to eat her cream bun, holding one hand cupped underneath it, in case any of the custard filling spills onto her lap.
—From The Woman in the Purple Skirt, a novel by Natsuko Imamura, translated from the Japanese by Lucy North (Penguin Books, 2021). Originally published in Japanese as Murasaki no sukato no onna (Tokyo, Japan: Asahi Shimbun Publications, Inc., 2019).

"So," the voice began, between regular inhalations on a cigarette, "there's this phone booth in a garden, on a hill in the middle of nowhere. The phone isn't connected to anything, but your voice is carried away with the wind. I'll say, Hi, Yoko, how are you? And I feel myself becoming the person I was before, my wife listening to me from the kitchen, busy preparing breakfast or dinner, me grumbling that the coffee's burned my tongue. 
        "Yesterday evening I was reading my grandson the story of Peter Pan, the little flying boy who loses his shadow and the girl who sews it back onto the soles of his feet. And, you know, I think that's what we're doing when we go up that hill to Suzuki-san's garden: we're trying to get our shadows back."
—From The Phone Booth at the Edge of the World, a novel by Laura Imai Messina, translated from the Italian by Lucy Rand (The Overlook Press, an imprint of Abrams, 2021). This segment is from pages 16-17 in hardcover.  

Wherever he went, Hitoshi always had a little bell with him, attached to the case he kept his bus pass in. Even though it was just a trinket, something I gave him before we were in love, it was destined to remain at his side until the last.
—From "Moonlight Shadow," a short story published along with the short novel Kitchen, both by Banana Yoshimoto, translated from the Japanese by Megan Backus (Grove Press, 2006). 

She was so small I would scan the crib a half-second
to find her, face-down in a corner, limp
as something gently flung down, or fallen . . .
—From "Her First Week," a poem by Sharon Olds, from her collection The Wellspring (Knopf, 1996, p. 44).