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I am an adult woman. I read books. I write about books too. I think I do an ok job of it. But apparently, men think I could do better. Or at least know more about books and writing and probably everything (including food). And so, sometimes they try and tell me all about everything they know since they are men and they are naturally wise. These are some of those times.  On seeing I am going...
It’s sort of perfect to imagine Maris Kreizman at the Emmys. “I felt like a princess,” she says. “It comes a little late in life but it came. I missed junior prom but I got to go to the Emmys.” We’re having drinks at Sugarburg, a bar surprisingly pleasant for being perched on top of the Metropolitan Avenue L/G entrance. We are supposed to be talking about her book, Slaughterhouse 90210—and we do, eventually—but I can’t...
In her “Art of Fiction” interview with the Paris Review, Italian novelist Elena Ferrante mentions a very good essay in The Guardian by Meghan O’Rourke about, well, Elena Ferrante. And why wouldn’t Ferrante (or any author) read essays about herself? They must—I imagine—be especially amusing for all their speculation surrounding her identity; “Ferrante” after all is a pen name. Reading several of them at once is like watching a futile game of twenty questions:...
Munich Airport, Greg Baxter’s excellent second novel, is already in danger of being overlooked. "Well, so are a lot of books," you say, and rightly so. But Baxter, with his blunt, digressive prose and caustic emotional outlook, deserves to be included with Karl Ove Knausgaard, Elena Ferrante, Ben Lerner and Rachel Cusk in the current conversation about what fiction can do and where it is going. His new novel combines the prolix, emotional rawness...

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