Passing wounds in different studies of light, scabbed on the vast walls of daughters, the world spins inside itself, as a liquid over the plains, over Holy Lands and sacrificial slabs, over citrus peel and sumac-stained hands, over raised sardine fishing boats built with the nails that crucify father to son.

Excerpt from Ann Quin’s novel Tripticks, introduced by Austin Carder.

The wind howls against the trailer’s tin walls. 

“You’re not special,” he says. “You’re not the main character.”

Then who is? But he doesn’t read fiction.

To read Kerouac, especially his poetry, is to listen to an already posthumous message sent from himself to himself in the void after the end of speech…

Excerpt from Beatriz Bracher’s novel Antonio, translated from the Portuguese by Adam Morris and introduced by Adam Mahler.