Letters & Essays
Art & Photography
This is the fourth installment of Nina MacLaughlin’s Novemberance column, which will run every Wednesday this month. The field where I played soccer before I had breasts was called Metacomet Park. A nylon net full of balls would be spilled on the …
Regarding “Oh! Susanna,” there is little point in discussing the verses nobody knows. Let us confine ourselves to the verses everybody knows: Well, I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee I’m gwine to Louisiana · my true love for to see …
Mid-July 1955, 889 years after the Battle of Hastings, the townspeople of Auvers, a one-steepled, overgrown tarry town near Paris, woke up to a spanking, hand lettered, red-white-and-blue poster festooned across the front of the cafe A Van Gogh.
“Every novelist should possess a hermaphroditic imagination.”
Every week, the editors of The Paris Review lift the paywall on a selection of interviews, stories, poems, and more from the magazine’s archive. You can have these unlocked pieces delivered straight to your inbox every Sunday by signing up for…
Norman Mailer on Norman Mailer being Norman Mailer.
If we hadn’t stopped on our way to the ceremony to look at the pen of black pigs, we wouldn’t have seen the very large pig lunge at the smaller one, to force him away from the feeding trough.
In a photograph around 1977, Francesca Woodman perches in an armchair in her Providence, Rhode Island, studio. The shot is a long one, and Woodman, set in the background, almost disappears in the disarray of the room.