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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. 78
Fear Itself
Spring 2022
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

May 11, 2022
                                  1.

Someone nodding, and the light pressing down
as though it had weight.
And right in the middle of what I want to say
there’s a long row of chairs. There are green,
red, yellow arches that gradually contract
and close, like doors.
Like a disease whose threshold no one can cross,
she says.
May 4, 2022
Once upon a time, there was only Olga and me, as well as our old dog, Boji, in a big house we inherited from our parents, whose food we had slowly been poisoning in a span of at least a year. Our parents blamed their “chronic illness” on inclement weather, on the “heathens” who played rock music next door, sometimes on “cursed” and “possessed” appliances and furniture.
April 27, 2022
birds, vital furniture for our eyes. The floor refoliates
a dozenfold. Months
these days waltz
triple-time
within us. Echoes of fundamental shapes. Great-

grandfather, Harry Houdini’s accountant.
Isaac, our cousin the Don, muscled his way into King’s spitting distance.
All told, say
the performance outlived the performer?
O
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