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A Reading by Brian Evenson
The celebrated and controversial author of Altmann's TongueThe Wavering Knife, The Open Curtain, Last Days, Windeye, and other books reads from his work.
Monday, November 9, 2015
2:30 pm – 4:00 pm EDT/GMT-4
Campus Center, Weis Cinema
 [A Reading by Brian Evenson] Introduced by Bradford Morrow and followed by a Q&A, this event is free and open to the public; no tickets or reservations required.

"[Brian Evenson's stories] will thrill, unsettle, and captivate. Like lanterns in dark rooms, paper boats carried down on subterranean waters, they lead the reader into mysterious and perilous territory. Read at your own risk."—Kelly Link

"Brian Evenson is one of the treasures of American story writing, a true successor to the generation of Coover, Barthelme, Hawkes and Co., but also to Edgar Allan Poe." Jonathan Lethem

"There is not a more intense, prolific, or apocalyptic writer of fiction in America than Brian Evenson." —George Saunders

A translator and literary theorist, BRIAN EVENSON is best known as the author of a dozen books that explore the horror genre through a sophisticated literary lens, frequently drawing on his personal history with the Mormon church. Most recently, he has published the fiction collection Windeye and the novel Immobility, both of which were finalists for a Shirley Jackson Award. His novel Last Days won the American Library Association's award for best horror novel, The Open Curtain was a finalist for an Edgar Award and an International Horror Guild Award, and The Wavering Knife won the IHG Award for best story collection.


 

Contact: Micaela Morrissette, mmorriss@bard.edu, 845-758-7054

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In Print

Vol. 75
Dispatches from Solitude
Fall 2020
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

April 14, 2021
When you think of white do you think of Rembrandt
in darkness          pockmarked     a sieve or a monkfish
Ahead now     ahead then:       ash        scrub pine        shade
and Penny –– then twelve        then my brother’s sole friend 
April 7, 2021
To sing’s to field thought’s
failed arrow, then drop it,

as sadness surprises,
as always, then doesn’t,

its record all rumors, bits
of lithic in its meat,
March 31, 2021
Underneath the electric microscope frass gathered like a word no one could pronounce, or something children left in a cage. Sugar ants were gorging on the corpse of a cicada next to the front door. Soon four golden mounds were theirs, to carry back in their lemony bellies to the queen. I have a box of nine suns set on spikes, a pair of gray bags concealing speakers. I am your teacher, said the teacher, alone in a room. If there is a predicate to this.
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