It's the good stuff. Afghani.

That night, it was a Ford that stopped.

To write an Oulipian text is both to draw a picture and to solve a puzzle.

Hear Haydn’s cry at the court of the Prince, and his symphony.

Committing blasphemy’s no parlor game.

in the basement she coughs then lights a smoke

I have long suspected that the public, exoteric text of Remembrance of Things Past is a fake.

At the end of the furrow, words staple / the page, lashing agile lines. None are spared.

On every banknote that passed through my hands I wrote one verse.

Smirking, the abbess palpates the prelate’s brow.

They immediately request permission to take samples in order to trace the source of the drug.

The national sport of Spain, not counting soccer, is drinking cold beer and eating tapas.

Translators are often congratulated, but never admired.

Blind to one another, two empires face off across a vast expanse

“Remember that safe I carried off with Adjaj and Bernard and opened at my dad’s?”

Both travel book and testimony, L’intruse records the experiences of a French human rights activist in the Middle East. Roannie, a retired pediatrician and member of Amnesty International, spent…

I began the laborious ascent of the loaf.

Rags of screams, a flight of black cloth.

Can we write a revolt when it is still under way?

When the massacres began in 1990 we had our doors bullet-proofed.

I crawled to your lips across a bed of thorns

The Tunisian Revolution has opened new perspectives to explore that would have been unthinkable only a few months ago.

How the dream had lost its plumage / In the skies of your nest.

“And this word, superfluous, the way it sticks to you . . .”

She was born with one of the longest names on record, and now that name was shrinking, letter by letter, as surely as if it was being eaten away by gangrene.

The two who flanked the tallest one wore strange gas masks, giving them the appearance of insects with round, dull glass eyes.

It’s the son’s idea: he’ll hide in an armoire and, when his father walks by, he’ll jump out and scare him.

It was night. The ninth night. The most silent, the most oppressive.

What does a man need to live? A bit of bread is enough.

As far as I know, there's no more bus service either. In what capacity are you going to the front?

It goes quickly. Lisbon burns.

They returned…

The Total corporation—jewel in the crown of the French economy—maintains a presence in many countries across the globe, wherever there are fossil fuels to exploit. To do so, it hires locals, but also…

Under the crowd's gray gaze, a dozen militiamen bluntly push him into a small van.

Silence I don't know when I began to write this book.

Silence I don't know when I started to write this book.

She stopped in front of a shop window full of umbrellas, and her friend, who was walking ahead of her, suddenly turned around: Carme, we'll get separated!

Last night, before falling asleep, she had realized winter was almost over.

Perhaps I am one of the last who must live out to the end the destiny of the Jewish spirit in Europe.

How in the world did Hans Marius Berenson end up in Lima?

“Each element establishes a layer that gives the story added weight and heft.”—Francine Prose

The heat had loosened their lips and made them quick to speak.

Time is so complicated, yet so simple!

The druggist has closed up shop without a word to anyone, the scoundrel, and it's not even five o'clock.

Perused that evening by lamplight, that essay made the schoolmistress' hair stand on end.

The snail is necessary the bindweed is necessary