The South, to Emily Pease, is “beautiful and memory-rich, with a layer of dark.” The same could be said about her stories, though the layer of dark within is thick and permeates the whole—like the heat on an August day in the South, nothing is left untouched by it.
Tanguy Viel’s new novel is not about poetic justice, but artifice.
Irina Reyn’s new novel begins in the middle of a complex history: Nadia Borodinskaya, a single mother, has been working tirelessly in the United States for the last seven years to bring her adult-aged daughter, Larisska, from war-torn Ukraine.
From a city ensconced in massive treetops where no children are ever born, to a black market for human remains literally underground, Marlon James leads readers on a journey through an Africa western fantasy has long ignored.
Niviaq Korneliussen’s novel is short, only around two hundred pages, but it moves like a bullet: powerful, emotionally dense, and over much more quickly than I wanted it to be.
Mackintosh’s characters offer a representation of how young women deal with grief once a familial structure is undone, in the way of filling empty spaces that begin to present themselves.
Yan Lianke’s new novel asks: Are we dreamwalking through our entire lives?
Wendy Guerra, award-winning poet, novelist, actress, and television host, tackles surveillance, paranoia, and the instability of reality in her second novel translated into English.
Amparo Dávila’s collection is reminiscent of Shirley Jackson, Franz Kafka, and Edgar Allen Poe, and tests the limits of fiction.
In Unfurled, the reader is pulled forward in short, well-crafted chapters that simulate the rough-and-tumble journey through shock, grief, and the revelation of knowledge that the narrator initially rejects—that her mother survived and was in touch with her father.