Nazi Literature in the Americas by Roberto Bolaño is a book of sly humor and dry wit. It masquerades as a catalog of short author biographies - authors who happen to be fascists and Nazi sympathizers. It traces their lives, reporting in a journalistic tone their sometimes subtle, sometimes overt allegiances toward the ideologies of white supremacy.

Nazi Literature in the Americas (New Directions)

In some ways, Nazi Literature feels like a counter-mythos to famous writer salons, though the authors surveyed in the biographical catalog are dispersed widely in the Americas and do not all appear to have connections to one another (though plenty do). Still, it…

How do you read today’s books without a passing familiarity with the classics?

(Image by author)

All the best contemporary writers allude to these timeless tomes constantly. And I’m continually finding more depth in the classics to draw from. They’re classics not because they’re old, but because they’re timeless human stories.

Not all are going to engage you personally, of course. But to just dismiss a vast and diverse range of writers from different times and cultures simply because they’re labeled “classics” does disservice to oneself as a reader. There’s too much under the label of “classics” to simply dismiss them all. Say…

In the lives of ambitious and creative people, the view is often forward. The view, in fact, is often tunnel-visioned in the sense of the next project, the next step in the process. What we forget is that the process is likely to only end when we do. So we need to remember to take a step back and celebrate our successes.

That tunnel vision is a part of the reason we find success in our endeavors. Without it, we might only dream of the next project, the next big thing. Yet, even as we succeed (because the process of…

This story took a long time to place. I don’t think it took so long because it was poorly written. In fact, I’ve had some compliments on it over the years. The editor at 34thParallel (one of the first magazines I ever submitted to) sort of gushed over it:

Dear R.E.
Let me say I’m impressed by your story; dialect in any form is difficult–damn difficult–for a whole lot of reasons of which I’m sure you’re aware. So I’ll repeat, I’m impressed–damn impressed (if you’ll excuse my language).

Only this April, the editor over at Barren Magazine had this to…

That’s right, a terrorist group not only sent me a letter, but using Publishers Clearing House style writing, told me I could win guns and gold in a sweepstakes.

Part of entering involved stickers. There were three of them.




All I had to do was affix these stickers to my official entry form. Oh, and hopefully while I’m at it, I could join their terrorist organization.

How can they get away with using the US Postal Service in service of spreading terror?

Let me tell you that I actually see US citizens wearing clothing that proudly proclaims them members of…

As a child, I shinnied the coarse trunks of trees, carrying a book in a backpack or clamped resolutely between my chin and chest. I’d sit in the boughs of shady retreat and dappled light up there where the wind blew through leaves, and the leaves were an instrument, accompanied by birdsong, and I’d read of dichotomous fairyland entities who struggled against one another. The hero’s armor always shone, and he’d raise his double-edged sword above his windblown hair in righteous victory. …

Alchetron © 2019

Mark the doors with the sigils of the moon, of the red red river, of the biting chains. Empty dawn of its fire. Let dusk sink eternally into crepuscular paralyzation — hypnagogic, terrifying. Dragons long slumbering in the earth: Rise! Burn the tents. Rape the women. Convert the men to the church of sharpened steel. Aim high. Pillage low. Wear white in the dark and don’t forget to blow all the candles out. Ancient markings waver at the rumble of the prehuman tongues. Fling the buckets of waste and watch the earth’s boils grow, fester, pop in unholy birth. Dead…

Photo by Lara Alegre

What do you think of A Man in the Snow?

I don’t think much of him.

He lies there, still and freezing. It’s his art. A silent performance in the snow.

He’s in a fucking snowsuit. I mean, it’d be at least a little interesting if he was in the nude.

What I like is how the installation is never the same twice. Sometimes he’s deep in the snow. Other times there’s just a little snow, and he lies down on it. Once in a while you can catch him when it’s actually snowing, and he lets the snowflakes fall…

Randal Eldon Greene

Fiction and founder of the Hello, Author newsletter. Words at 📗

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