Then owner of the only secular Yiddish bookstore in New York is “praying for a white knight” to save it. The PEN American Center issues a statement in support of the proposed Park51 Community Center:…


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p align=right>Many terribly quiet customers exist but none more

terribly quiet than Man:

his footsteps pass so perilously soft across the sea

in marble winter,

up the stiff blue waves and every . . .


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Téa Obreht was featured in The New Yorker’s 20 Under 40 Fiction Issue. Her story will appear later in the summer.
When were you born?
September 30, 1985.

Where?
Belgrade . . .


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In the spring of 1976, before the start of their affair, before he became her husband, before she knew anything about him, Polina had noticed Alec in one or another of the V.E.F. buildings, always looking vaguely, childishly amused.
“If my Papatchka ran the factory, maybe I’d . . .


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It’s just me throwing myself at you,
romance as usual, us times us,

not lust but moxibustion,
a substance burning close

to the body as possible
without risk of immolation.

Nearness without contact
causes numbness. Analgesia.

Pins and needles. As the snugness
of the surgeon’s glove . . .


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In the spring of 1976, before the start of their affair, before he became her husband, before she knew anything about him, Polina had noticed Alec in one or another of the V.E.F. buildings, always looking vaguely, childishly amused.
“If my Papatchka ran the factory, maybe I’d . . .


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We weren’t speaking. It was snowing, temps dipping
into the teens. You and I were playing Frisbee
because we’d fought all day, and it’s a tonic
to get outside and throw the sharp disk at one another
with cold dumb hands. Then the animals . . .


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Why is it so unsettling to read memoirs about grief? Five Kentucky men have been arrested for a book-selling scam. Strict etiquette. Judgment by peers. New media may be making teen-age love affairs more like…


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We want this.
The end to sleeping, the bittersweet
arousal, the peeling back, the soft bath
in resin, the release. It can’t come quick
enough, the hot touch that breaks the crust
and lets us go. Hear it now: a crackling,
as the woods begin to sing alongside . . .


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When news emerged last month that Stieg Larsson’s fourth, unfinished book is set largely in Canada, the announcement forced some nagging worries—only incipient when I was reading the trilogy—to float prominently to the surface of…


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