• Fiction, Online Feature
    Malerie Willens

    She is alone in October, in a heated metropolis emblazoned with the signifiers of too many people, projected onto surfaces—a thousand Pablos and Anas and Jims—faces and names, faces and names, people as content, the idea of people, people without people.

    Podcast

    A new episode of the Sewanee Review Podcast featuring Danielle Evans is now available.

    The Conglomerate
    Adam Ross

    Our struggles continue, while autumn—that blessed break from summer’s oppressive heat—seems to arrive later with each passing year.

    Fiction
    Alice McDermott

    But he and his siblings agreed: you could not call a marriage of forty-seven years a failure simply because it was unoriginal.

    Poetry
    Garrett Hongo

    Then, one by one, like mourners at a funeral, each of them shuffled up and shook my hand, some saying nothing

    but looking deep into my eyes, theirs glistening in the autumn light.

    Review
    Christian Lorentzen

    This book is not a complete autobiography; it does not tell the whole life or attempt to explain everything. It is a description of psychosis, a break from reality, and the memories it contains represent paths back to that reality, to the “historical time” the patient has departed.

    Poetry
    Dana Levin

    I stayed home for days with weekend drives
       to see my love,

       who didn’t live with me.

    Nonfiction
    Brian T. Edwards

    We never really talked about that day afterward, my father and I, the way we don’t talk about his childhood. I wonder if he remembers it today and if so, how.

    Fiction
    Carrie R. Moore

    Sometimes, she thinks, memory lodges in the body. She’s always suspected that people have been wrong about the brain, about the flashes of light and color sparking in its folds, compressed by hard skull. Memory travels down arms and legs familiar with the dance, under the arch of the spine or the foot. The body remembers.

    Poetry
    Roger Reeves

    *I can’t breathe* in the water’s curve and slur
    Over the narrow paths, in the trail and gutter
    His body made in the mud, where the sky
    Barges in and fills.

    Nonfiction
    Ambassador Reuben E. Brigety II

    I believe that the arc of the universe can be bent toward justice, but it does not happen by itself. History is not inevitable. It is the result of choices that people make, and decisions that institutions embrace.

    Review
    Justin Taylor

    You could say that Wayward is a novel about rage and despair, which are two sides of the same coin; as well as privilege and risk, which are the same side of two different coins. It’s a novel about who gets to choose the conditions of their existence, and what it means—indeed, whether it is possible—to reject the “choices” that have been made for you.

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