In Moshfegh’s no-bullshit approach, female friendship is scrutinized not to find genuine affection but to recognize how different personalities can embolden one’s ability to give into their emotional addictions.
The eleven stories in O'Neill's collection read like a string of understated poems that progress, implode, and digress. They are compelling not only because of his memorable characters but also because of his density and diction.
Cusk's latest novel, the last installment of her much-talked about trilogy, has a deceptively celebratory title.
Reminiscent of Lydia Davis, Nors sifts through large concepts with concise language, wry humor, and a contained plot.
There’s something so gentle about Berg, in his awareness of the world and the people around him. He cares. He has a sense of humor. He wants to turn his life around.
Gabel studied cello for years and her experience is evident as she spools out the plot, repeats motifs and varies the story's tempo and dynamics. Music dictates the structure of the book, too, which is arranged in four parts, like a concerto, with a short coda at the end.
Joffre achieves fluidity by refusing labels, marrying concrete sensory details to emotions, and using elements of fabulism and magical realism. Taken together, the effect is dreamlike, but never serene.
The novel, which shifts third-person perspective between two lovers, reveals the impossibility of ever fully knowing someone when thoughts are inscrutable even to the people thinking them.
In A Lucky Man, Jamel Brinkley’s stunning debut collection, the stories are not formally linked, and yet they are, implicitly, by their beautiful prose, by their intimate gaze at character, by their focus on black men, by their setting in New York City.
“The baby is dead. It only took a few seconds.” So begins Leïla Slimani’s French bestseller, translated into English by Sam Taylor. The thriller won France’s Prix Goncourt—Moroccan-born Slimani is only the twelfth woman to win the award—and uses an American news story as its source.