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The upper elites, who are one-twentieth of 1 percent (0.05) of the world’s population, get richer, and the rest of us struggle to get by. More than half of the world’s population lives in semi-poverty, tormented by combinations of poor nutrition, homelessness or the threat of it, and inadequate healthcare.
My friend of over three decades tried to comfort me and her soldier husband: three tours, two in Afghanistan, one in Iraq, a navy-blue sweatshirt boasting an Airborne patch, a bracelet saying Remember The Fallen circling his wrist, a black, rubber ring dark on his calloused hand, the kind soldiers wear to honor others who’ve served or lost their lives in combat.
I wished he would come back soon, so I could see what the shoes looked like. For weeks, I’d had no appropriate shoes. The shoes I was wearing were patched so heavily that there was no space for new patches. Some spots were double-patched. My feet sometimes bled.
Soon after the translators convene in Irena Rey’s village on the outskirts of the Białowieża forest in eastern Poland, “Our Author” makes an initial, harrowing appearance (as she has done with her translators many times before). Then, quite inexplicably, she vanishes.
How do you imagine the unimaginable? How do you write about it? That’s the task investigative journalist Annie Jacobsen sets for herself in Nuclear War: A Scenario, her hypothetical account of nuclear warfare and the end of the world as we know it.
For many readers, the story of a democratic country's descent into dictatorship requires no great leap of imagination. Lynch makes no reference to how this situation came to pass, but the novel’s premise seems altogether plausible.
Louise Kennedy (author of an acclaimed novel, Trespasses) writes beautifully about the Irish and their tumultuous inner lives. In the story, “Hunter-Gatherers,” Siobhán’s fascination with a hare in her backyard turns sour when her lover Sid abruptly puts an end to the wild creature’s life. “In Silhouette” traces a line from the present-day Irish countryside to the Troubles of the 1980s.
On the tree-lined stretch of stately condos and apartment buildings, the structure that had technically been in my possession since 7:37 p.m. two weeks ago Tuesday—the determined hour and minute my father suffered his heart attack—announced itself like Dad invariably did when entering into any setting: loudly, with exuberance, and flashing money.