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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 EST/GMT-5
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. 76
Fortieth Anniversary Issue
Spring 2021
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

October 20, 2021
Launch

codes, we stripped species,
            our insecure
hands of gloves
to crack the test           to our capitalizable
future. Pray
            for the multiverse I’m working on
at midnight.
October 13, 2021
Forgive us. We were waiting
here, in the thickening ice. We worked a long time. Now
we try to give what we found, a little basket
hiding behind each back, full of the young shoots.
They are so green. Mercifully green. We say so. Yes,
they are alive, we say. We, too. We are still sick.
October 6, 2021
Friday night, and you have done the unthinkable. You’ve taken your father’s Jackal Ghost bowling ball from its locked hard-shell case under your mother’s bed—the ball that looks like a purple and black version of the earth, a jackal’s head rising from the swirls—and gone to meet Teddy and Zeke and Evan and Marya, most importantly Marya, for a night of bowling, the game your dead father was obsessed with: the game that, according to your mother, ruins people.
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