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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. 75
Dispatches from Solitude
Fall 2020
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

January 11, 2021
One’s opportunities to be unhappy are

Unlimited.     Or limited, but only by

One’s own imagination, which is powerful

But fragile, is defenseless,     but is limited

Only by things unseen.     As Bark Psychosis did it
January 4, 2021
As life encroaches on the dreaming
bedpost, you remember

a chip of ice you found in river
sludge, its sheen a mute witness

to increments of change
as lens and pure belief.
December 17, 2020
Even if we do have a self, all many of us want is to still the music, for a time. Transcend that individual identity, shuck off that convict walk of a mortal coil, to make a new beginning of a pulled-out piece of TV antenna with the glued-on plastic bead. To try and fool my parents and everybody else that I hadn’t gone and broken something in the house, again. That I could save it, fix it, we could fix it, make it new. Trying to quench this thirst for annihilation with the secret machine. Alcohol, sex, love and work wrote the shanties of self before. I lost those full- throated lines. So, I walked the meditation labyrinths. And studied bugs. In silence. Alone.
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