The Paris Review

Staff Picks: Screen Tests, Souvenirs, and Sam Ospovat

Kate Zambreno. Photo: Tom Hines.

When I was very, very young and very, very unhappy working in a bookstore, I read on my lunch breaks Kate Zambreno’s , a novel about another very unhappy shopgirl, and felt as though I understood it on a cellular level. Zambreno’s books have a way of getting under your skin, and her willingness to write ugly, to approach the banal and the cliché as just another tool and subvert it into works of rage and oftentimes real beauty, is part of the appeal. , her latest, pairs a first half composed of very short, very funny pieces of fiction (some of which were published in ) with a second half of longer essays,

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Credits
Cover: Courtesy of Nicolas Party and the Modern Institute /Toby Webster Ltd. Page 12, courtesy of Alice Notley; pages 32, 36, 39, 42, 45, 48, 52, 55, 56, courtesy of Jhumpa Lahiri; page 59, photograph by Marco Delogu, courtesy of Jhumpa Lahiri; pages

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