Features

Dead Last Is a Kind of Second Place

Jell-O Pudding Pops that preserve the wavelike peaked shape of your lips. Little Debbie Fudge Brownies that break in half along a groove in the frosting. Summer sausages like No. 2 pencils, cling-wrapped together on a Styrofoam platter. Strawberry Fruit Wrinkles that scent your fingers if you don’t pour them directly into your mouth. . . .

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Maxine Kumin: Making Contact

The Concord Monitor recently ran a two-part interview with Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Maxine Kumin—here are parts one and two—and we were reminded of the wonderful package of photos Maxine sent us to go through when we were preparing to print her essay in our Winter 2012 issue, . . .

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Reading The Purpose Driven Life, with Schopenhauer

                                                                                                           —December 2012

Really—I don’t know what the meaning or purpose of life is. But it looks exactly as if something were meant by it.
—Carl Jung

 

i.

 

The Truth will make us miserable, . . .

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Honeymooners

I miss the grain of Ralph, and the grain

of Ed, and Trixie’s grain, and especially

the grain of Alice, whose pretty, pointed body

would never, ever land on the moon. Alice

was earthbound; Alice was of 

the street, . . .

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Shadow Animals

I.

On any afternoon in Stein’s grocery store parking lot in Troy, Montana, a truck—American made, four-wheel drive, dented and dirt-streaked, axles riding high—will pull in and park. A young sawyer will jump from the cab. His beard is trimmed neatly or his face is clean shaven; he wears thick-soled leather boots, . . .

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Staying Put and Unsprawling

Spring is finally returning to Athens, Georgia, with dogwood, azalea and, more to the point here, the annual Georgia Review Earth Day Celebration. This year’s guest speaker is Scott Russell Sanders, a writer of skill and probity—and of the hopefulness always associated with this season. . . .

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Three Levitations: Julia Elliott on Rapture

Toward the end of my short story “Rapture,” a small, wizened, evangelical grandmother called Meemaw, after speaking in tongues and describing the End Times in lurid detail, levitates for a few glorious seconds before plopping back down upon the stained sofa of a humble living room. Of all the supernatural feats reputedly performed by saints, . . .

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