Founded in 1892, the Sewanee Review is the longest-running literary quarterly in America.
About the Review

Nonfiction
John Jeremiah Sullivan
In discussing twentieth century American popular music and its most essential genre, the blues, there have been two main channels for getting into the history, or, as we like to say, the roots, of that tradition.
Online Feature The Conglomerate
Liz Van Hoose
We recently met at our NYC neighborhood restaurant, Community Food and Juice, to talk about editing, publishing, and the literary passion fostered by Grove Atlantic under the intrepid leadership of its publisher, Morgan Entrekin.
Nonfiction
Stephanie Danler
Like the tectonic plates that keep California unsteady, trauma's movement is never interrupted; it is always shifting—yet we only pay attention when it's a disaster.
Archival Content Fiction
Flannery O'Connor
The doctor’s waiting room, which was very small, was almost full when the Turpins entered, and Mrs. Turpin, who was very large, made it look even smaller by her presence.
Poetry
Edgar Kunz
Alone now in Oakland. Thin cloud rusting / over Temescal, garlic simmering // in the pan, lavender potted and long dead in the breezeway.
Fiction
Sidik Fofana
My nigga Boons came home on the fourth. I ain't seent the nigga in four years, so when I heard he was out I'm like, Imma scoop the nigga first thing this evening.
Archival Content Poetry
Mary Oliver
The deed took all my heart. / I did not think of you, / Not till the thing was done.
Craft Lecture
Mary Jo Salter
“Paints and scrapes, paints and scrapes”—the artist at work is not merely putting paint on a canvas, but scraping it off.
Jacqueline O'Connor
Each of us on a kitchen chair, your typewriter fluent as automatic gunfire, as you sketched gestures and intonation, dialogue, behavior, and I with index finger, pecked and brooded, weighing the sound or color of a word. ­­­­—Clark Mills, unpublished poetic memoir In the summer of 1937, Clark Mil...
Spencer Hupp
Frank Bidart’s collected poems, Half-light, are this year’s selection for the National Book Award for Poetry. This honor is long-deferred; at seventy-eight Bidart has previously been a finalist for the Award once and the Pulitzer three times. His oeuvre includes two of what many critics consider ...
Annie Adams
The author’s grandmother, Anne Wunderlick, circa 1968. My grandmother wore long Mexican dresses every day, had nine children in thirteen years, and could smoke cigarettes with her toes. I love telling people about her, though less so the end of the story: she died of lung cancer. Does the f...
Web Design and Development by Riverworks Marketing