Contributors

Max Frisch
Contributor History

Biography
Max Frisch (1911–1991) was one of the preeminent literary voices of postwar twentieth-century Europe. In a style that mingled irony with lyricism, he explored the nature of identity and issues of moral responsibility, both individual and collective. Born in Zürich, he traveled widely, living in Switzerland, Rome, Berlin, and New York. His novels include I’m Not Stiller (1954), Homo Faber (1957), and Man in the Holocene (1980), which The New York Times called “a luminous parable” and “a masterpiece.” His plays include The Firebugs (1958) and Andorra (1961). Max Frisch’s journal from his military service in the Swiss Army, Blätter aus dem Brotsack or Pages from My Knapsack (1940), was his first published book of nonfiction. Two other journals, Sketchbook 1946–1949 and Sketchbook 1964–1971, appeared during his lifetime.

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In Print

Vol. 76
Fortieth Anniversary Issue
Spring 2021
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

July 21, 2021
“Well, technically batshit,” I’d tell him, and I’d remind him that, seeing as we were trapped in this cave—“Cave?” he’d say, and I’d say, “Yeah, the cave we’re recovering from eye surgery in,” and he’d say, “Oh right”—and that seeing as we’d be thus—“pardon the expression,” I’d say—interred for at least as long as it took to recover, that the cave would be, for all intents and purposes, what we’d have to mean, from here on out, by the word world; and thus bats, who were the only creatures still flitting in and out of the cave’s narrow apertures and thereby participating in the larger ecosystem and importing to an otherwise inhospitable environment the most basic elements needed to sustain life, their excretions would need to be, for the foreseeable future, what we’d have to mean when we’d say sun.
July 14, 2021
And all manner of head swerves.
Three people flew past me, but did not see.
It’s not even clear what happens to the chicken on the bobsled.
 
Trails . . . that slither with their cake.
Will you have more?
May 26, 2021
I remember how, when we got word that it was okay to emerge, my parents opened the front door. My mother was holding an aluminum baseball bat, my father had a shovel. The three of us were in our hazmat suits. (Mine had grown a little taut. I was eleven years old and had gotten taller and rounder.) Our breaths were trapped in our masks.

How long had we been indoors? Time was hard to figure. It had been well over two years. But had it been three?
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