Novellas by Irène Némirovsky and Roberto Bolaño, a graphic novel by Anna Härmälä, a story by Marcie Malone, and a story collection by Elaine Hsieh Chou

~
I'm not talking about François and Hélène Erard, of course; I have never been in a home more pleasant, welcoming, intimate, warm and happy than theirs. But, in spite of everything, my idea of the perfect evening is this: I am completely alone; my housekeeper has just put the hens in their coop and gone home, and I am left with my pipe, my dog nestled between my legs, the sound of the mice in the attic, a crackling fire, no newspapers, no books, a bottle of red wine warming slowly on the hearth. 
—From Fire in the Blood, a novella by Irène Némirovsky, translated from the French by Sandra Smith (Knopf hardcover, 2007; Vintage paperback, 2008). Originally published in Paris, France, as Chaleur du sang by Denoël in 2007.

Now I am a mother and a married woman, but not long ago I led a life of crime. My brother and I had been orphaned. Somehow that justified everything. 
—From A Little Lumpen Novelita, a novella by Roberto Bolaño, translated from the Spanish by Natasha Wimmer (New Directions, 2014). Originally published by Mondadori as Una novelita lumpen in 2002.

He opened Poets and Painters to the classifieds. "Look here," he said, handing me my reading glasses. The right lens was greasy with chocolate wax. I soldiered on. This too is marriage.
—From "My Husband Told Me to Write a Story," a story by Marcie Malone, Fiction Attic (December 17, 2025). 

Finnish mothers get given a baby box by the state, and it's great. You get clothes, blankets, diapers, condoms . . . / and the box doubles as a safe bed for your baby. / Since the 1970s, the state has also given you a poster to remind parents to smile through the pain. 
—From Single Mothering, a graphic novel by Anna Härmälä (Nobrow, an imprint of Flying Eye Books Ltd., London, 2024). I know this isn't the focus of the book, but there are some notable differences between having a baby in Finland vs. the US, as evidenced in this segment (from page 47), where Mia is given a box of supplies. 

At the rear of the shop, down a dim hallway, was a studio where the manager lived with his wife, separated from the kitchen only by a curtain of wooden beads. They had worked for my grandparents for as long as LaLa could remember. I was introduced to them the way we were to all adults: "ShuShu" for men and "Ayi" for women. I never knew their real names. 
—From Where Are You Really From, a collection of six short stories and a novella by Elaine Hsieh Chou (Penguin Press, 2025). I listened to the audiobook, which was narrated by Joel de la Fuente, Imani Jade Powers, Katharine Chin, and Natalie Naudus. This segment, which appears on page 7, is from "Carrot Legs," which was previously published (in a slightly different form) in Guernica.  

Two poems, short fiction, and a novel

~
When the men arrived, finally, to haul the big table away, 
I ran my hand down the battered length of it, as if along
the flank of some exhausted workhorse, overcome
by a sudden rush of absurd remorse.
--From "Esposito & Son," a poem by Anna Scotti, The New Yorker (November 28, 2016), p. 38.

Before leaving, he explained his plan to the maid and the cook.  Buenos Aires is falling apart; I'm going to the ranch, he said.  They talked for hours, sitting at the kitchen table.  The cook had been to the ranch as often as Pereda, who had always said that the country was no place for a man like him, a cultivated family man, who wanted to make sure that his children got a good education.  His mental images of the ranch had blurred and faded, leaving only a house with a hole in the middle, an enormous, threatening tree, and a barn flickering with shadows that might have been rats.  Nevertheless, that night, as he drank tea in the kitchen, he told his employees that he had hardly any money left to pay them (it was all frozen in the bank--in other words, as good as lost) and the only solution he had come up with was to take them to the country, where at least they wouldn't be short of food, or so he hoped.  
--From "The Insufferable Gaucho," a short story by Roberto Bolaño, translated from the Spanish by Chris Andrews, published in The New Yorker (October 1, 2007) and in the short story collection The Insufferable Gaucho (New Directions, 2010), pp. 9-41.

In 1954 he began to train with the Ama, Japanese women diving in the tradition of their mothers and grandmothers and great-great-grandmothers, "sea women" seeking fish and pearls in the depths of the Pacific.  
--From "Sine of the Sea" (parts I-IV), fiction by Clare Boerigter, First Class Literary Magazine, November 28-December 2016.  A link at the bottom of the page will lead to the next segment.

I had been driving for less than an hour when I began to feel ill.  The burning in my side came back, but at first I decided not to give it any importance.  I became worried only when I realized that I no longer had the strength to hold onto the steering wheel.  In the space of a few minutes my head became heavy, the headlights grew dimmer; soon I even forgot that I was driving.  I had the impression, rather, of being at the sea, in the middle of the day.  
--From The Lost Daughter, a novel by Elena Ferrante, translated from the Italian by Ann Goldstein (Europa Editions, 2008).

It it what it is; heart packed in cotton balls and stored
for winter, or like clothes that no longer fit but still might.  
--From "Ouroboros," a poem by Sonya Vatomsky, first published in Menacing Hedge (Spring 2015) and reprinted in her chapbook My Heart in Aspic (Porkbelly Press, 2015).  

Books of short stories by Roberto Bolaño and Dan Chaon, and a tragicomic illustrated memoir by Allie Brosh

~
B is in love with X.  Unhappily, of course.  There was a time in his life when B would have done anything for X, as people generally say and think when they are in love.  X breaks up with him.  She breaks up with him over the phone.  
--From "Phone Calls," one of a series of connected stories by Roberto Bolaño, from his short story collection Last Evenings on Earth, translated from the Spanish by Chris Andrews (New Directions, 2006).  "Phone Calls" first appeared in Grand Street. 

O'Sullivan and his older brother, Smokey, have been driving in silence for a long while when the deer steps out of the darkness and into the middle of the road.
     For a second, it seems as if the world is paralyzed.  They can see the deer with its hoof lifted, taking a delicate step into their path, dreamy as a sleepwalker.  They can see the enormous skeletal bouquet of antlers as it turns to face them.  
--From "Slowly We Open Our Eyes," a short story by Dan Chaon, from his story collection Stay Awake (Ballantine/Random House, 2012), pp. 172-187.

This girl I've been seeing falls out of a tree one June evening.  She's . . . a little drunk and a little belligerent. . . . and we've been arguing obliquely all evening.
     For example, I just found out that she has an ex-husband who lives in Japan, who technically isn't an ex-husband since they haven't officially divorced.
     For example, I didn't know that she thought I was a bad kisser: "Your kisses are unpleasantly moist," she says.  "Has anyone ever told you that?"
     "Actually, no," I say.  "I've always gotten compliments on my kisses." 
     "Well," she says.  "Women very rarely tell the truth." 
     I smile at her.  "You're lying," I say . . .   
--From "Shepherdess," a short story by Dan Chaon, first published in Virginia Quarterly Review (Fall 2006) and reprinted in his story collection Stay Awake (Ballantine/Random House, 2012), pp. 188-209.

When I was ten years old, I wrote a letter to my future self and buried it in the backyard.  Seventeen years later, I remembered that I was supposed to remember to dig it up two years earlier.  
. . .  The letter begins thusly: 

        Dear 25 year old . . .
        Do you still like dogs?  What is your favorite dog?  Do you have
        a job tranning dogs?  Is Murphy still alive?  What is youre favorite
        food??  Are mom and dad still alive?

. . .  Below [a crayon drawing of] German shepherds, I wrote the three most disturbing words in the entire letter--three words that revealed more about my tenuous grasp on reality than anything else I have uncovered about my childhood.  There, at the bottom of the letter, I had taken my crayon stub and used it to craft the following sentence: 

                                      Please write back.

--From Hyperbole and a Half, written and illustrated by Allie Brosh (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster, 2013).

Two stories from Granta and a novel by Ha Jin

~
I gave up heroin and went home and began the methadone treatment administered at the outpatient clinic and I didn't have much else to do except get up each morning and watch TV and try to sleep at night, but I couldn't, something made me unable to close my eyes and rest, and that was my routine, until one day I couldn't stand it any more and I bought myself a pair of black swimming trunks at a store in the centre of town and I went to the beach, wearing the trunks and with a towel and a magazine, and I spread my towel not too far from the water and then I lay down and spent a while trying to decide whether to go into the water or not . . .  
--From "Beach," a short story by Roberto Bolaño, translated from the Spanish by Natasha Wimmer, Granta, Number 114 (July 18, 2011). 

Some time ago, when my husband went to stay at the American Academy in Rome in order to do research, I accompanied him because I had never seen the Roman Forum.  I had a book Harold had given me for my birthday that showed how the ruins looked in the present day, and each page also had its own transparent sheet with drawings that filled in what was missing, or completed the fragments that remained, so you could see what the scene had looked like in ancient times. . . .  At dinner, our first night there, we were introduced to other visitors, and here is where the story starts: they were the parents of a young man to whom our daughter, Angela, had briefly been engaged at the end of her senior year at Yale--so briefly that I had never met his parents, though Harold and Donald Stipley had a passing acquaintance.  
--From "Lavande," a short story by Ann Beattie, Granta, Number 94 (December 10, 2008).   

Finally Taotao got his passport and visa.  For weeks his parents had feared that China, even if not closing the door outright, would restrict the outflow of people.  After the Tiananmen massacre on June 4, 1989, all the American airlines except United had canceled their flights to Beijing and Shanghai.  At the good news, Pingping burst into tears.  She quickly rinsed the colander in which she had drained the shredded turnip for her jellyfish salad, took off her apron, and set out with her husband, Nan Wu, for the town center of Woodland, where the office of Travel International was located.
--From A Free Life, a novel by Ha Jin (Pantheon Books, 2007). 

Three poems and a short story

~
"Invitation," a poem by Mike White, West Branch (Issue 65, Fall/Winter 2009).

"The Ruin of Amalfitano," a short story by Roberto Bolaño, translated from the Spanish by Natasha Wimmer, Harper's Magazine (October 2012, pp. 67-74).

"Remember to Learn from Your Mistakes," a poem by JodiAnn Stevenson, www.bowlofmilk.com (2003).

"Fruit," a poem by JodiAnn Stevenson, www.bowlofmilk.com (2004).