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October 2007

Rambles through Catalunya

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Black and White

March twenty-second. Friday night. Everything is in place. The soft metallic chimes of the living room clock strike ten with mathematical precision as you begin the second course; the exact

Encounter

I have a feeling that it is a mistake to go to the party at Mr. M.'s, especially under the circumstances. Things have tightened up once more. Again scarves have to be pulled down all the

What Time Is It?

Now, no doubt, the hour must be late . . . Despair has settled for the night in my heart, Tortured once more by bitter regret— What time is it? What time is it? Beyond the window

The Invention of the Aspirin

Eighteen minutes into dinner at the Mexican restaurant and Mrs. Salat is so bored out of her mind she decides to do a couple of things to ensure she survives the time remaining: she will sink

Self-Portrait, 1925-1930

On the spot where I write all this hodgepodge of verses      stands Edward Hopper, in fact, who engenders them      and who, neatly transcending

I Have Nothing to Wear

The man faces the mirror. He has just shaved and taken a shower. With one hand he pinches the little spare tire in his waist, observes it in the mirror, and clucks his tongue. He hesitates

The Not-So-Perfect Crime

My brother Borja's name isn't Borja. It's Pep (or Josep). And his surname isn't Masdéu Canals Sáez de Astorga. We're both Martínez on our

The Other Life

I had to die to find out whether anybody loved me. When alive, I was never very popular, and it was a real problem for me that I fought very vigorously and quite without success. At home, if

Afternoon at the Cinema

Sunday, 2 June Ramon and I went to the Rialto this afternoon. We had quarreled earlier and I was almost in tears when he was buying the tickets. It was over something stupid, I know. It

We Were Just Talking about You

A little after three p.m. on 13 March, 2006, my wife said: "Sit down." She didn't look me in the eye and, as if she'd been rehearsing this move, made it fairly plain that we should

Waiting Room

The love you didn't expect is always more pure. It is a gift of compassion where time, more austere and uncertain, more absolute, seems to stop on the dime of your silences. Knowing

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Book Reviews

Recent Issues

Divided Countries

The Queer Issue VIII

The Global Feast: Writing about Food

You Will Not Be Born Again:
Catalan Literature Now

From the Edges of Europe: New Bulgarian Literature

International Graphic Novels: Volume XI

Bad Behavior

The World on Stage: Micro-Plays in Translation

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