Woman rolling down car window: Excuse me! How do I get to the track meet?
Terrace NARP: Sorry, you’re asking the wrong people.
Other Terrace NARP, pointing at nearby students: Ask them, they’re all wearing Princeton sweatshirts.
Woman rolling down car window: Excuse me! How do I get to the track meet?
Terrace NARP: Sorry, you’re asking the wrong people.
Other Terrace NARP, pointing at nearby students: Ask them, they’re all wearing Princeton sweatshirts.
On the travel writings of Gertrude Bell and Freya Stark, and the imperial tool of aestheticization in the Middle East.
“She believed she was molded from clay. The same clay that made the fish in the canal and the flowers in the grass.”

“She gave the florist her name, Sally Hawthorne, and her telephone number and new address, and asked if he would put her name in the system. She explained that she and her husband had just moved, that the house didn’t feel like home, so she’d been looking for somewhere nice to buy flowers, but found…

Dear friends, To walk through a home where you once lived, to see someone to whom you once felt connected, to re-read a book you loved as a child—these are often deeply disappointing experiences. The walls of your old bedroom seem much closer to each other than they once did. Your old friend’s eccentricities,…

“Xiomara turned to face him. Her face was so pale that it glowed in the darkness of the living room. On the mantle to her right, by the television stand, the clock read five in the morning.”


Let’s bundle up this longing to know another / fling curtains over doors / we need more blindness. I gawk at compasses / hallucinate edged circles / stop their revelatory revolutions. A matador’s calculations are never constant / I was formulated for distance. I run into the red, and the cloth is your palm. The…

“Jamie’s ghost pervaded every corner of our home like cobwebs. All of my flaws were seen through the lens of his perfection, even though we had never actually met.”

Cómo se enluta la montaña, Agazapada en el cándido recontar de mi nona, Cómo la pinta de cruda al tornarse cansada la luna, Cómo vacían tus calles, y callan las cunas, y cierran las puertas… al compás de la marcha. Calle que calla, Tumba que tumba, Bota que bota, al son de…

“In 1966, some children came, a line of red dots ascending the trail. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years old. They called themselves Red Guards. They came up the mountain with crowbars and red armbands, and they smashed the altar and broke the bell and tore the books and cut the persimmon trees.”

“i wonder what it’s like to have a body that doesn’t feel like an afterthought hacked together with whatever spare parts god could find as he ran out of time to get me down to earth.”

A Nass writer wonders how the past and present can coexist in space, applying Freud’s own concept of the Eternal City to Berggasse 19.
We think you should try out interviewing people who love the movie Coherence in Pittsburgh.