The Paris Review Book: of Heartbreak, Madness, Sex, Love, Betrayal, Outsiders, Intoxication, War, Whimsy, Horrors, God, Death, Dinner, Baseball, Travels, the Art of Writing, and Everything Else in the World Since 1953
The Paris Review
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
An exciting new anthology from the journal Time magazine called “the biggest ‘little magazine’ in history.” To commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the venerable Paris Review, Picador is proud to publish a unique anthology based on the themes of modern life. Like the work of the writers included, this book will inspire a dizzying range of thought and emotion, serving as a cumulative and breathtaking “mirror” to the world we live in.
Gabriel García Márquez
David Foster Wallace
and many more.
drinking, he was ordering a second round of double Manhattans when I arrived. Naturally I took one, then a second, without saying that I had already had drinks with Fred. But if I had, it would have made no difference. Wilson was in a bibulous mood. And I learned why he had said no to drinks before lunch that day in the Union Square restaurant: he had had a colossal hangover, and the hair of the dog was not one of his weaknesses. His habit, as I came to know, was to get thoroughly soused (which
her lap. Finally, one of the people next to her turned and introduced himself. His face was poppy-seeded with whiskers, and he seemed to be looking down, watching his own mouth move. When she asked him how he liked it here so far, she received a fairly brief history of the Ottoman Empire. She nodded and smiled, and at the end he rubbed his dark beard, looked at her compassionately, and said, “We are not good advertisements for this life. Are we?” “There are a lot of dingdongs here,” she
I ain’t gonna tell anyone. But I got to know. I might of hauled off and let her have it once or twice. Stupid little cunt asked for it, didn’t she. She was so little, there wasn’t enough meat on her thigh bone to feed a sick dog. She could of wriggled by the scoop in my armpit if I had let her. Our black women ain’t a bit like that, I told you Charlie. They cook it up, they eat the mess they made. They proud. I didn’t let that ride too long. Carter’s head moves quick, but he don’t dust me. I
worst has happened. Nothing really touches me, she says and begins to express her contempt. For a second everything gets transparent. At my café breakfast I sweat profusely and attempt to comfort the silverware and consider the water, shimmering in its glass like precious liquid crystal, to be my friend. When the government cars go by, the big black-curtained cars containing dignitaries who will one day beg God to save them, I get up from my seat and stand on the steps looking at the sky
would, before the hour was up, be fast asleep. Madge had never tried the mesmeric cure on anyone, nor had she given it much thought in the years since the doctor of Nice had massaged her own neck with his relentlessly seductive fingers. But “progressive relaxation” was as dependable as a tested recipe. If she failed she would leave Spragton and never return, she said—a vow made impulsively and dishonestly. If our grandmother had failed, she would have readily gone back on her word and stayed