My father answers the phone. He is twenty-three years old, and, as everyone does in the nineties, he picks up the receiver without knowing who is calling. People call all day long, and my parents pick up and say, “Hello?” and then people say, “It’s C

I didn’t understand. If that boy couldn’t read, why was he up there? The girl they originally had hosting the ceremony didn’t show, but why they put that boy there? Just because he volunteer for everything? You can’t read off enthusiasm. It made the

Cover: Courtesy of Nicolas Party and the Modern Institute /Toby Webster Ltd. Page 12, courtesy of Alice Notley; pages 32, 36, 39, 42, 45, 48, 52, 55, 56, courtesy of Jhumpa Lahiri; page 59, photograph by Marco Delogu, courtesy of Jhumpa Lahiri; pages

I’ve always loved salmon. Not to eat, as I don’t eat fish, but I’ve always loved salmon in general because salmon jump and no one knows why. They jump all over the place—out of rivers, up waterfalls. Some say they jump to clean their gills. Others sa

hasten slowly and you shall soon arrivepriyanka said, quoting milarepa after all this timemy patience waned its wayinto the dipping sun with the pin-tailed onewhose knowledge was encyclopedic…. betelgeuse is turning on and offlike your love—everybody

A leaf falls here/there, now/thenbehind the rain, a curtain of rain,the trees in their own time.I see now that time falls in layers. There were deer there once, in the clearing,three deer, large as memory objects.They stood in a circleas if they knew

The Plimpton Circle is a remarkable group of individuals and organizations whose annual contributions of $2,500 or more help advance the work of The Paris Review Foundation. The Foundation gratefully acknowledges: 1919 Investment Counsel • Gale Arnol

France won the World Cup.Our dark-goggled dictator died from eating a poisoned red applethough everyone knew it was the CIA. We lived miles from the Atlantic.We watched Dr. Dolittle, Titanic, The Mask of Zorro. Our grandfather, purblind and waitingfo

is a stone some sayhelps put a feverish childto sleep and othersclaim it wakes actorsfrom the necessarytrance of illusion to become themselves again it comes in many colorslike the strange redstone set into the Russian imperial crowneveryone thoughtw

EDITOR EMILY STOKES MANAGING EDITOR KELLEY DEANE McKINNEY DEPUTY EDITOR LIDIJA HAAS ASSOCIATE EDITOR AMANDA GERSTEN WEB EDITOR SOPHIE HAIGNEY ASSISTANT EDITORS OLIVIA KAN-SPERLING, ORIANA ULLMAN EDITORS AT LARGE HARRIET CLARK, ANDREW MARTIN, DAVID S.

What a sad day,full of black, blue,red, and yellow umbrellas.Everyone in the world,whatever their disposition,seemed to be crying at once,while I hit upon readingTrollope, and so remained a weekamong the grouse. That was mydisposition. Sometimes Iwou

On the cold night of November 24, 1997, before Shahid disappeared forever, I thought I was his closest friend, his only confidant. We had known each other since we were children, attended primary and high school together, even gone to the same colleg

I’m a Keats botso are youour living handsheld toward each otheron the internetsolution sweetI stood on a peakin Darien, googledmy errorI am so colonialI am tubercularmy alveoli a-swellmy actual bloodyour actual bloodwe made loveI planted basilI plant

Bzzzzzzzzzzzz … the humming the soughing the ceaseless the droning the sizzling the moaning the whirring the hissing the whizzing “murmuring of innumerable bees” “They forage with wit and dexterity”“they take the best from every flower”“they read the

GBENGA ADESINA is a poet and essayist. FARAH AL QASIMI is a visual artist. ELIJAH BAILEY is at work on a novel and a short-story collection. SANA R. CHAUDHRY’s Writing Trauma: The Politics of Mute Speech in the Urdu Short Story is forthcoming from Cl

1.That summer I learned Biblical Hebrewwith Christian women heaving themselvestoward ministry one brick building at a time.We got along well, they and I and our teacher,a religious studies graduate student who spenteight hours a day transmitting the

As a toddler she had caused a sensation in her family when she announced she wanted to live in a little hole like the ant. Not an ant, the ant. This might have been misheard. She was an easygoing child, not particularly thoughtful and stubbornly inar

The bird was blue and grayLying on the stairsThere was somethingMoving inside of itAnd still I knew it was deadI promised my motherI wouldn’t touch anythingThat had been long goneInside something turned and wiggledThere’s a kind of transformationThat

The Plimpton Circle is a remarkable group of individuals and organizations whose annual contributions of $2,500 or more help advance the work of The Paris Review Foundation. The Foundation gratefully acknowledges: 1919 Investment Counsel • Gale Arnol

I accept the terms and conditions of our relationship as indicated by my continued use of this interface, designed with the indulgent architecture of a desert casino no one ever wants to leave, least of all the luckless gambler digging deeper to find

ANGELA BALL’s most recent book of poetry is Talking Pillow. MICHAEL BERRY is a writer and translator. He is the director of the Center for Chinese Studies at the University of California, Los Angeles. AIMEE CHOR is a poet and translator. SARAH CHARLE

Not mine but I’ll take some—not too much, just part. Not the best part—it could be best, though, no wayof knowing, I’ll take just the blue part,the part that includesa cantilever bridge, or maybe the brown part that includesa horse’s halter, I’ll tak

Cover: © the Estate of Sarah Charlesworth, courtesy of Paula Cooper Gallery, New York. Page 12, photograph by Jean Vong, courtesy of John Currin and Burnet Editions; pages 62, 66, 69, 70, 73, 76, 79, 82, 86, 91, 92, courtesy of Yu Hua; pages 122–128,

EDITOR EMILY STOKES MANAGING EDITOR KELLEY DEANE McKINNEY DEPUTY EDITOR LIDIJA HAAS ASSOCIATE EDITOR AMANDA GERSTEN WEB EDITOR SOPHIE HAIGNEY ASSISTANT EDITORS OLIVIA KAN-SPERLING, ORIANA ULLMAN EDITORS AT LARGE HARRIET CLARK, ANDREW MARTIN, DAVID S.

On a cold but sunny Thursday in March 2014, I set out from my girlfriend Rosie’s apartment in West Philly to walk across the country. I’d been going to school nearby at Swarthmore, but for reasons that aren’t worth belaboring, left in December 2013,