One of the oddest things I’ve experienced in Korea is something that you might not pick up on as a casual vacationer. It took me years to finally admit it was true, but Korean restaurants, ca…
Each week, we’ll highlight great fiction, nonfiction, or poetry from some of the amazing writers at Teen Ink. Check out an excerpt from this week’s selection below:
It seemed to me as though I shot arrow after arrow after arrow, year after year after year. I shot because I enjoyed the thrill of success. I shot because, for many years, it slowed the hectic pace of life. Everyone searches for inner peace, a perfect balance of the heart, mind, body and soul. Of the few who find it, fewer still have the strength to keep it.
One day I realized that archery had become just another item on my list of things to do. It no longer gave me that sense of balance and peace. As I stood 40 yards from the target, I found focusing long enough to shoot a full round of arrows almost impossible…
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It has been an amazing publication day for Constance Fenimore Woolson: Portrait of a Lady Novelist and Miss Grief and Other Stories. Reviews appeared today on the websites of The New Yorker and The…
Source: Publication Day
On Friday, October 8 from 3-5 PM in room 116 of the Whitney Humanities Center the WGCP will be discussing the work of the Brazilian poet Angelica Freitas. Specifically we will be reading a selection of poems from her book Rilke Shake. Our discussion that day will be shaped by the input of Hilary Kaplan, a WGCP member-at-large and Freitas’ American translator. Hilary’s terrific essay on translating Freitas is available here: http://digitalartifactmagazine.com/issue2/Translating_Poems_from_Angelica_Freitas_Rilke_shake
The first two paragraphs provide a biography for this poet: Rilke shake (São Paulo: Cosac Naify, 2007), a collection of 45 short poems, is the first book by the young Brazilian poet Angélica Freitas. The title, a pun on milkshake (which in Brazil’s vernacular means just what it does in English), indicates the book’s contents: poetry approached as a shake of languages, words, canonical tradition and a measure of delight, whirred in postmodernity’s ironic blender. The often first-person poems grapple…
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Last weekend was beautiful. Really beautiful. Not like winter at all here in Maryland, with abundant sunshine and temperatures in the 50s and a glorious hunt of spring to come. (In six more weeks, apparently.)
When we ran out Sunday to complete a Craigslist transaction (always nerve-wracking, but we meet folks in very public locations — and this man turned out not to be a serial killer, thankfully), Spencer and I swung into a local barn renovated to hold . . . well, to hold junk. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s a combination of a thrift store, salvage shop and last-resort home for stuff no one else wants.
My husband can’t get enough of it.
Spencer leaves no box unturned, no screw unscrewed. A yard sale devotee and serious handyman, Spence loves the thrill of the hunt — and in the dead of winter with…
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. . . Well — book crushes, that is.
My earliest relationships weren’t with actual boys, friends. I didn’t manage to catch the eye of the cute kid in math class or Peter Brady or even Daniel, the first boy to earn a sappy valentine in second grade.
They were with book characters.
I fell for bookish leading men long before I dared to express my feelings to any real-life ones. Relationships in my favorite novels taught me about relationships in general, especially in those impressionable teen years, and I feel like I’m a better reader — and person — because of it.
Though I am, in fact, a happily married lady, my devotion to my flesh-and-blood husband does not negate the underlying passion I can feel for literary men. We’ve all been there, right? Sometimes you can’t help but fall into a bottomless pit of yearning for some…
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