Image:
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
Book Reviews
Fatou Diome’s “The Belly of the Atlantic”
Reviewed by Robert Buckeye
