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The Paris ReviewThe Paris Review

The Paris Review

Winter 2018

The Paris Review publishes the best fiction, poetry, art, and essays from new and established voices, and the Writers at Work interviews offer some of the most revealing self-portraits in literature.

United States
The Paris Review Foundation, Inc.
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14,32 $(Incl. VAT)
42,98 $(Incl. VAT)
4 Issues


access_time1 min.
alex dimitrov

IMPERMANENCE The first ending. And knowing it would end I wanted another. Lover, summer, pen with which to write it all down. The first disappointment. Which is not remembered but lives in the body. And how familiar it became. To take the same walk home or lean over ledges, to say my own name when meeting someone. Again and again for the last time: the taste of salt in the afternoon. Flowers for no one—alive and sold on the street. What did I think was promised in being? The way a stranger can finish you off. Once only. And never the same after that. After knowledge. How people are being detained and shot with our money. All of...

access_time1 min.
two poems by rae armantrout

NOW SEE 1. Don’t worry. We have armies of showrunners writing our dreams, ones where we’re featured as skilled apparatchiks facing credible threats that appear and disappear like clockwork, leaving no apparent damage. 2. It was all one to me— all pain-pleasure, all squirmy life-death until your head broke the surface and looked backward and forward. Now see what you’ve done.PROBE No lie! Need input! Not ghosting you! Which coffee is best for wildlife? Are you going to get the monkey? Are you taking him to sister? No, you’re giving him to granddad. Everything we did was tracked by sentences. Now we can’t stop talking to ourselves. Worried about what happens. Just need a minute. We are all rooting for you. ■...

access_time20 min.
a feeling artist

LINCOLN MICHEL Onstage, I’m thinking about the postman who was so overwhelmed by the amount of mail he had to deliver that he threw it all, and then himself, into the sea. I’m thinking about the agoraphobic grandmother who refused to go outside, even when the fire started on the floor below. I’m thinking about crying mothers, refugees fleeing crumbling cities, and infinite human hatred. It isn’t working, but I’m weeping anyway. It’s just muscle memory at this point. I go through my entire act. I rub my hands together on the lip of the foot-high stage. I moan beneath the fluorescent...

access_time3 min.
hanif abdurraqib

for the Kenyon Young Writers of Ascension 202OFF-WHITE my boys & I refused to believe it was Michael who didn’t make it through the night even though the cameras strewn across the sky showed the mansion lawn specked with red sirens & from my own covers I imagined him to be simply asleep the way I slept with the red lights pouring into my bedroom windows in the summer of ’97 while the medics decided that my mother’s throat had closed & locked every door & they tucked her beneath a white sheet & to die in one’s sleep must be...

access_time41 min.
i met fear on the hill

LESLIE JAMISON It’s the summer of 1966, and Sheila and Peter are a young married couple living in Berkeley. They are very much in love, and also very high—tripping on acid for the first time in their lives, in Tilden Park—walking in a shallow stream full of primordial monsters, or at least salamanders. The leaves are emeralds. The whole world is an amoeba. They are Adam and Eve, and they’ve found their way back to the garden. They are renting a room in a communal house from a lawyer turned drug dealer; a local character named Wild Bill painted on their walls...

access_time2 min.
ilya kaminsky

from “ LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT” 1. Because cemeteries are too pricey I would like to be deposited on a public bench and not in the earth but in the middle of September at the end of wonder: wrap me in newspapers, darlings, and run! I want to live my death on a public bench next to a barbershop— die when it is time to cut my hair so I can save four dollars! I was always happy in barbershops. Now happiness, come blow your nose in my hands— I want to die on a public bench— those who watch me in the street say something in him wants to be entered and picked clean. Be careless, life! Wrap me in newspaper...