Subscribers have full access to the expanding library of the European Review of Books.
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Refugees and border guards in the Białowieża Forest. Scenes of violence play out behind a thick cover of trees, in a remote corner of Poland.
Migranci i strażnicy graniczni w Puszczy Białowieskiej. Prastare drzewa ukrywają ekstremalną przemoc.
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A story about danger. « She wondered when he was going to ask her where she was going. »
« Eylül adamın ‘ne tarafa gidiyorsun’ diye sormasını bekledi »
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Mission: Impossible and Eurocentric stunts, from Hollywood to Hong Kong. What does an action movie want to be?
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Fernanda Melchor’s prose hits you square in the face, but its lyricism works differently in Spanish. On Veracruzano modernism, lyrical slang, and worlds so new that style falls apart.
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The first word I ever wrote was stsikukha: « pisser ». This is how my nanny Frosya called me to my face. On poetry and pathos in a bastard tongue.
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You could tell the US army had arrived because the local garages had sold out of whiskey. Old maps, new wars & vanishing memories along the Polish-Ukrainian border.
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« He rolled down the window, went back to honking the horn, and started waving my underpants out the window. »
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« What happened was that we were driving on the highway from Izola towards Koper when we saw a drummer on the side of the road. So I immediately drove to the side of the road and reversed my car and asked if I could take some pictures. »
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New short fiction from the author of Autumn, Winter, Spring, and Summer. A story about what’s ours and what’s not ours.