Prose
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Excerpt from “Morasses” by André Gide (translated from the French by Tadzio Koelb)
Translator’s introduction: In this chapter the narrator—who claims to be a writer, but never writes—has once again postponed work on his novel, Morasses, this time to attend a salon for men of letters at the home of his good friend Angèle. Gide used the scene as an opportunity to mock the literary world of his day. Readers can look for a caricature of Gide’s correspondent and sometime traveling companion Oscar Wilde, here given the name Valentin Knox.
Morasses
On the days she receives guests,
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“The Rescue of the Seven Cities of Atlantis: A Diary of the Engineer’s Wife” (parts 2 & 3) by Alexander Chee
A Letter to Her Majesty in Restless Triumph
“There was no way to know of the success with which the myrtles would take to their new beds here. They bloom now, scent the air vigorously and the children pass along their rows, tempted to take whole boughs away. My queen, I miss the sound of your skirts in the halls of this home, and all our seven cities scattered now makes me weep to think of you there in Attilan, without me. I watch the mermen here, their huge tails scatter the waves to foam as they race each other out to where their whales wait for them,
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An Interview With David Leo Rice
David Leo Rice is a Brooklyn-based writer whose second novel, ANGEL HOUSE, is due out this June. In this Weird Fiction extravaganza, readers will encounter the Town, a mythic gathering place for spirits floating upon an inland sea. In this strange yet familiar place, two friends come-of-age as they try to turn their ultimate fantasy, a Pretend Movie, into a real film. Meanwhile, a sinister force named Professor Squimbop tries to educate the Town’s children on Death, videotapes open otherworldly portals, and a radio announcer levitates children with the power of his voice.LIT Prose Editor Joshua Lemay sat down to talk with David about the book,
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“The Rescue of the Seven Cities of Atlantis: A Diary of the Engineer’s Wife” (part 1) by Alexander Chee
The Exile’s First Morning
The city had fled its moorings in the night, to race the clouds that had surrounded it while we slept. Now we float above the beach, the bottom will shave the dune-tops off if we continue on, and of course the subway tunnels are all in danger of filling with sand.
A boy on the beach, makes from bathing, waves at me when our eyes meet. He rises and walks, shining and wet, stays neatly ahead of our shadow. Our guide.
In the chapel below me the vicar rides his stone horse in a circle while angels somersault through the air above him,
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“Perfectionist” by Diane Gurman
I began writing suicide notes decades ago in my twenties because I’m not the type of person who likes waiting until the last minute. At the time, I was alternating between sadness, depression, and suicidal ideation, still not committed to ending it all, but wanting to be prepared when that inevitable moment arrived. The thought of a positive turnaround never crossed my mind. I certainly couldn’t imagine bubbling over with happiness or lust for life. That was not my style. Nor did it occur to me to follow in the footsteps of that selfish or illiterate cadre of losers who depart without explanation.
