#greg pardlo

Finding life-changing books in the most unlikely places; a reading list from Bruce Bauman. | Literary Hub

On favorite reading experiences and the “great hunger”of first-person narration: part two of Paul Holdengraber’s chat with Ben Lerner. | Literary Hub

“I’ve been publishing in ‘mainstream’ journals and my book won that [the Pulitzer] prize, so what is it that is making me invisible?” A report from PEN America’s diversity in publishing panel with Greg Pardlo. | The Guardian

Jonathan Franzen on the rise of “the New Yorker story,” known for its “carefully wrought, many-comma’d prose,” in the 1950s. | The New Yorker

“American literature has been missing Kurniawan, without even being aware, until now, of our loss.” On Eka Kurniawan’s two newly translated novels. | Bookforum

“The black face boy is why we are here. He is the cake of all our trouble!” Nikky Finney’s devastating “The Battle of and for the Black Face Boy.” | Oxford American

The disturbing and amazing Mark Z. Danielewski offers five books that are both unsettling and beautiful. | A.V. Club

On Lauren Redniss’s insightful, formally innovative look at everyone’s favorite topic of conversation – the weather. | The New York Times

The artist is (too) present: Writers are coming to engage with and embrace social media. | Full Stop

The prodigal pun returns: On the linguistics of the overused, overlooked form of wit. | JSTOR Daily

I was born in minutes in a roadside kitchen a skillet whispering my name. I was born to rainwater and lye; I was born across the river where I was borrowed with clothespins, a harrow tooth, broadsides sewn in my shoes. I returned, though it please you, through no fault of my own, pockets filled with coffee grounds and eggshells. I was born still and superstitious; I bore an unexpected burden. I gave birth, I gave blessing, I gave rise to suspicion. I was born abandoned outdoors in the heat-shaped air, air drifting like spirits and old windows. I was born a fraction and a cipher and a ledger entry; I was an index of first lines when I was born. I was born waist-deep stubborn in the water crying                              ain’t I a woman and a brother I was born to this hall of mirrors, this horror movie I was born with a prologue of references, pursued by mosquitoes and thieves, I was born passing off the problem of the twentieth century: I was born. I read minds before I could read fishes and loaves; I walked a piece of the way alone before I was born.