Chicago Review

An international journal of literature, interviews, and reviews. For academic audiences.

Articles from Vol. 43, No. 3, Summer

Cashmere
Previously, he had bought me new dresses. Just so, for no particular reason. He selected them alone and hung them secretly in my wardrobe. He never seemed to realize how monstrous these dresses looked: perfect tents, size 24. His best-loved dress was...
From Walks to the Paradise Garden
I spent a lot of time from 1984 till 1991 traipsing about Dear Old Dixie with the photographers Roger Manley and Guy Mendes. Our mission was to find, as Guy put it, "way out people way out there." We did just that, and fought a lot of kudzu, ate a lot...
Lenin True And/or the Dummy
I can't tell you how surprised I am to find you literate. How did this war let you learn? I saw soldiers shoot their horses and use the corpses as shields from enemy fire, beautiful horses those soldiers loved as much as their mothers. I saw guards slide...
Lox
The summer after my father's heart attack, my great Aunt Elsa decided to pack my sister Alex and me off to Forest Lake Camp in upstate New York for a month, so our father could convalesce in peace. She had been living with us during the four weeks he...
On Peter Riley's Lyric Excavations
Opening to the first page of Peter Riley's Distant Points (1995), the first volume in an ongoing series of what the book's jacket describes well enough as "prose-poems in which any singular voice is constantly interrupted by itself in another guise,...
Plan for Pond 4
Beneath the sky is a good location. What's the weather like? I imagine this house or reeds. I imagined it this way and you could as well. I wish you a happy birthday. Isn't there anything to drink here then? This is where I would dream of living = I...
Solo
That unusual frost during the last week of September, the first week of autumn, must have wiped out all the crickets, the mosquitoes and the other insects, he thought. Then it had gotten warm again, and it was strange to experience such quiet in so warm...
Vacated Thrones
105. The photograph He lies under coarse weave on hard earth, both hands on top of his head, saying in a language of angles, I want to live. But have come gradually to know that wanting is a distant signal, a far light or soul-point in the polite plains....
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