News & Events

Boston Book Festival 2011

Harvard Review at the Boston Book Festival 2011

Harvard Review will be at the Boston Book Festival, Saturday, October 15. If the arrangement is the same as last year, well be in a tent somewhere (#26) on the plaza at Copley Square — kind of like Occupy Wall Street! So, stop by and say hello.

Harvard Review 21

The Altars of September

From my first issue as editor of Harvard Review, this poem by Bruce Bond, written in the days just after 9-11 and added to the issue at the last moment in recognition of the terrible event. It was the first changing of the guard at the journal, and that, combined with the feeling of general cataclysmic upheaval, is reflected in the editorial, which we also reprint below.

The Altars of September
by Bruce Bond

That night she closed her eyes and saw
the trapped birds of voices shatter
against the crumbling walls, like a scene
in a movie replaying the disaster,
lighting up the back of the brain.
With each collapse the glass rose up,
restored, bright with sky, the fist
of God a shadow-plane approaching.

And it felt so distant, the numb
comfort that would bear this image
into the first cold regions of sleep,
the blackboard of the body wet
and REMless, as if those towers
fell still deeper through the floor
of the mind, gone the way of the pill
she took in faith, swallowing the world.

However many nights she clicked
her TV off, its spark of light
dwindling into the clear stone,
it would take time for any shape
slipping through her hands to lie
down in clay or paper, any lip
of paint to redden her brush.
White was its own confession.

She always imagined the distance
between a painting of a day
and the day behind it as a path
that carries us into our lives,
giving us more room, more reason
to move, luring us on and in
like sleep so deep in the body
all we see is of the body.

In time, looking out this way
through the window of her canvas,
every cloud dragging its anchor
becomes a burden of the flesh,
not hers alone, but the skin
of what no solitary gaze
can tear there from heaven’s fire,
what no frame can ever shelter.

Just that morning before she heard
the news, she took the shore drive south,
set up her easel, all the while
an unaccountable strangeness
drawn down over the folding cliffs,
a stillness unlike any day,
the uneasy silence of the skies
that hour tender as an eye.

Editorial, Harvard Review 21 (Fall, 2001)

There have been changes at Harvard Review—new editors, a new look, some new notions—which should have been foremost in our minds as this issue was going to press. Instead, we find ourselves preoccupied with the changes in our larger world, with a numbness that will not go away and a creeping, pervasive anxiety. It seems no time at all now to be talking about fonts. Indeed, there have been days when many of us found it hard to recover any sense of the larger purpose. And, yet, art may be some kind of antidote to terror.

Rereading the issue I was struck by a story in Ted Wolff’s essay about an epiphanic moment he experienced during the Second World War when, as a terrified nineteen-year-old on the way to Okinawa, the image of a Morris Graves painting popped into his head, bringing him a sudden, unlooked-for comfort. Wolff, who has spent a lifetime writing about art, lives in New York City. When I called him to check a final detail we talked a little about what had happened. “Listen,” he said, holding his phone to the window so that I could hear the music coming from across the street. “It’s another fireman’s funeral.”

Bruce Bond’s “The Altars of September” is the only piece in this issue to have been written after September 11th. But several of the pieces here were written in the long shadow of World War Two; still others deal with private battles no less compelling for their more modest scope. Not everything in the issue is grim and some of the grimmest subjects are also funny. Humor makes its appearance in several places, most notably in “Boom and Bust,” a delightfully black story by Tom McGuane about the warping of familial bonds. We have essays that are part-memoir on Vladimir Nabokov and James Merrill, an introduction to Marcel Reich-Ranicki and a tribute to the painter Morris Graves. The poetry, edited by Don Share, covers a remarkably wide range of poetic sensibilities and includes, among its highlights, an eight-page poem by Ray DiPalma. Finally, in this issue we begin a regular feature: the publication of short plays, starting with two previously unpublished pieces by David Mamet that are nothing if not fun to read.

So, with this we launch an new era at Harvard Review, under a new banner but in the same spirit, with due regard for the achievement of Stratis Haviaras, founder and editor from 1992 to 2001, and with cautious optimism for the future not only of the magazine but of the world.

—Christina Thompson

Samuel Menashe by Matt Valentine

Farewell, Samuel

There is a message on the voicemail at Harvard Review from the poet, Samuel Menashe, who died recently at the age of 85. Menashe had called to say that yes, we could certainly publish a poem of his that had come our way. The pathway was a uniquely contemporary one. Menashe had dictated the poem over the phone to Nicholas Birns, and Nicholas had sent it to me via Facebook.

I never got back to Samuel in time, not realizing how close to the end he was. But, it is, according to Nicholas, the last poem he ever wrote. And the contract, which he managed to return to us — it was postmarked the day after he died — has the barely legible writing of someone whose mind is still strong but whose body is rapidly betraying him.

We have published Samuel before and have always enjoyed what William Grimes, in his New York Times obituary, refers to as the “jewel-like, gnomic” quality of his verse — so witty and brisk and a little wacky, so unlike anything else one is likely to read. Menashe, who received little critical attention for most of his life, was recognized in 2004 by the Poetry Foundation, which awarded him its first Neglected Masters Award.

Samuel Menashe’s last poem will appear later this fall in Harvard Review 41.

(Photo by Matt Valentine.)

Old Ladies

Ever since we began featuring pieces from the Harvard Review archives I have wanted to do a selection from what I think of as one of my editorial sub-specialties: stories about old ladies. Here we present two of my favorites. The first is a story by the New Zealand writer Elizabeth Smither. Smither is a woman of many talents, a short-story writer, a novelist, and a poet (she was New Zealand’s Poet Laureate in 2002), and I have been publishing her work for almost fifteen years, going right back to the days when I was editor at the Australian journal Meanjin. This story, “The Hands of Lady Jane Grey,” comes from my first issue of Harvard Review, HR 21.

The second selection, and another of my all-time favorites, is “In the Pines” by Kevin Moffett. This story, which describes a series of encounters between an elderly woman and a Civil War reenactor, speaks to the increasing fluidity of memory, imagination, and reality with the passage of time. Like “The Hands of Lady Jane Grey,” it captures something profound about the twilight world of old age, which is not so much dim as oddly—and sometimes brilliantly—illuminated. We hope you will enjoy the rare combination of compassion and wit exhibited by these stories.

The Hands of Lady Jane Grey
In the Pines

The Perfect Submission

Some Advice for Submitters

We read every submission that comes into the Harvard Review office—whether written on a computer, a typewriter, or by hand—and we know that each writer has his or her own style for presenting work. We also realize that submission guidelines can be vague, especially for those new to the submission process, so we’ve compiled a list of some DOs and DON’Ts. Following these guidelines won’t determine whether or not your work gets accepted, but it will earn you the gratitude of the HR staff and make it easier for us to track your submission and respond to you promptly.

1. LABEL EACH PAGE: Put your name on every page of your submission, and make sure to number the pages. It’s easy for things to get separated or misplaced.

2. COVER LETTER: Cover letters help us file your submission accurately. They don’t have to be fancy, but make sure to include the following:

  • Your name
  • The date of your submission
  • Your mailing address and email address
  • The genre of the work you’re submitting (hybrid genres are okay)
  • The title of the work you’re submitting

3. POSTAGE: When you include an SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope), please use a Forever Stamp. You never know when postage will rise, and it can sometimes take us up to six months to respond to a submission.

4. PROOFREAD: Double check your submission for typos. They don’t stop us from accepting a good piece of writing, but if there are too many it can be distracting. Also, double check your cover letter. We don’t mind if you copy and paste from a letter to a different journal, but make sure to change the names (we get a lot of submissions that “would be a perfect fit for Ploughshares”).

5. DIGITAL SUBMISSIONS: Harvard Review does not accept email submissions, but you can submit electronically through our online submission manager at www.tellitslant.com. Before uploading your file, please be sure to do the following:

  • Give your file a unique name so that it can be easily located
    (e.g. YourName_StoryTitle.doc). We receive hundreds of files called HarvardReview.doc
  • Include a cover letter on the first page of the document (see #3 above)
  • Do NOT submit files with a .docx extension. These files often get corrupted and cannot be opened on some computers. We prefer .doc, .pdf, or .rtf files.
Jim Kelly

On Being Well Read

Thirty years of writing stories and having them rejected does not make for confidence in a writer. Not, anyway, in this writer. So, when Harvard Review accepted one of my stories I was stunned, delighted, and all smiles. What had they seen that decades of other readers had not?

The next note said they would be editing my story. I knew then the game was up. I would be found out for a fraud and my story, like so many before it, would never see the light of day. What, after all, did I know of editing? Images only, bad images. High school papers covered, top to bottom, with red ink that said, loud and clear, “Give it up.”

Then came the editor’s suggestions. And, they were just that, suggestions. I could act on them or not, take them or leave them. That was clear. What the editor also made clear, with each suggestion, was where my writing was not. With overall clarity and flow as yardsticks, the editor showed me how a word or phrase, a shift in tone, an awkward sentence or unnecessary paragraph held the story up, made it, just there, run a bit off the rails.

I was, maybe for the first time ever, being well and carefully read by someone who respected my work, saw what it could be, and helped me to see where changes needed to be made. Astonishing. Somebody out in the world taking me seriously, helping me get better.

This process was for me, this dialogue called editing, a pure and simple treat. Since then I have a new way of hearing my writing, my rough drafts. I write on an ancient typewriter. When a page is finished I take it out and read it out loud, sorting out what works and what doesn’t. I hear now with new ears.

It gives me, at age sixty, confidence to keep writing. Who knows, maybe I’ve finally found my real work. I hope so.

Harvard Review 39

Finding Jim Kelly

Here is a true story about one of our contributors. Some years ago a piece of writing arrived in the mail from someone named Jim Kelly. It was titled “Night School Confidential” and it told the story of a group of unlikely characters enrolled in a night school writing class. It was a curious piece, touching, a little bit raw, and quite unlike most of the things that cross my desk. I liked it, but at first I wasn’t completely persuaded. So I put it in the pile to the left of my computer where I keep things about which I haven’t quite made up my mind.

And there it lay. For months, and then for years.

Then last summer, in anticipation of a big trip I was taking, I decided to clear my desk. This meant, among other things, addressing the pile of undecideds. Near the bottom of the stack I rediscovered “Night School Confidential.” One look and the whole complex of sensations it had originally inspired returned as clear and vivid as if I had read it the previous day. I didn’t remember the details so much as the sensation: the air of anxiety and boredom and claustrophobia and the narrator’s compassion for people who didn’t have much going for them but who still had stories that needed to be told. In short, I remembered the feeling, and that, in my experience, is the single best reason to publish a piece.

Not every collaboration with a writer is an unmitigated pleasure, but this one has been. Because it’s been such an unusual process, what with my finding and losing and finding the piece to begin with and then the peculiarities of Jim’s own story, we thought we’d invite him to make a guest appearance on the Harvard Review Blog.

So, next up: Jim Kelly.

Harvard Review 39

The Problem with Categories

We decided to try something different in the table of contents of the most recent print issue of Harvard Review. As I explained in the HR39 editorial, there is something fundamentally unsatisfactory about dividing work up into Essays, Stories, and Poetry. Everyone has always known this, of course — some essays are like stories, some stories are like poems — but attempts to find new terms or carve out intermediary genres seem doomed to perpetual failure.

In the current issue I suggested we try out a new category which I called “Stories from Life.” My goal was to recognize a kind of writing that seemed to lie somewhere between Essay and Story. It was meant as an experiment and, like most experiments, it met with mixed success.

Part of the problem was the pieces I picked. Two of the stories, Brian Doyle’s “The Boyfriends Bus” and Jim Kelly’s “Night School Confidential,” seemed to me to have something in common, mostly in the manner of their telling — a directness and honesty that made them feel autobiographical, even if they weren’t.

I should add that both these authors, when asked, described their pieces as works of fiction, and I was certainly never trying to suggest that they weren’t made up. What I was trying to get at was the voice, the way it convincingly mimicked firsthand experience. In this, they resembled much of the nonfiction we publish, which is also highly personal, often autobiographical, but also strongly narrative (and, undoubtedly, in places made up), and which often feels to me like “stories from life.”

And this is where I made my mistake. I think my new category might have been more persuasive if I had included an essay or two — maybe Jessica Johnson’s “The Education of the Peppered Moth,” for example. Instead, I included Ellen Wilbur’s “Depression,” a story that, on second thought, didn’t really fit the bill.

Ellen was mystified. “Dear Christina,” she wrote,”the new issue of the magazine arrived today and while I’m pleased to be included in it I have to tell you I was stunned to have my vignette appear under a category not called fiction.” Ellen goes on to argue that “the whole excitement of writing is imagining people and situations [the writer has] never consciously experienced.” Which is undoubtedly true.

But then I never really imagined that Brian Doyle had gone on a bus trip with his wife’s old boyfriends or that Jim Kelly had been given a stuffed squirrel by one of his night school students — it was the feeling of authenticity the authors had achieved that mattered and that I was trying to signal by grouping them in this way.

I always find it upsetting when my writers are upset and I suppose this is what comes of experimenting in public. So, to Ellen (the full text of whose letter can be found here), please accept my apologies for miscategorizing your story. It was certainly meant as an honor and not as a slight.

And, to the rest of you out there: if you have any good ideas for new genre categories we’d love to hear about them. Because if our experience at Harvard Review is anything to go by, the number of difficult-to-pin-down pieces is only increasing and I don’t think we’re going to be done with this subject anytime soon.

Street Shadows by Jerald Walker

Best American: postcript

I thought all the decision-making was finished, but today I learned from the inimitable Bob Atwan, longtime series editor of Best American Essays, that not one but two of the essays from HR 39 — “Grieving” by Meenakshi Gigi Durham (writing under her maiden name of Meenakshi G. Venugopal) and “Unprepared” by Jerald Walker — have been selected for Best American Essays 2011 by Edwidge Danticat. Walker, as some of you may know, recently won the 2011 PEN New England/L. L. Winship Award in nonfiction for his book Street Shadows.

At least one other essay from the year — “All the Words I Knew” by Elisa Gonzalez, which appeared in HR 38 — made it into the “Notable” category. I mention this because Gonzalez was still an undergraduate when she wrote the essay and because it is her first published work. For Gigi, who is a professor, this was also a first of sorts — not a first publication, naturally, but in her own words “my first real published essay.” Congratulations to them all!

First Time Publications

In our continuing series entitled “From the Archives,” we look at the work of two young fiction writers both of whom were published for the first time in Harvard Review. While this is unusual it is certainly not unheard of, and we are always ecstatic when it occurs. We think it’s our job to discover new writers and there is something particularly exciting about publishing a writer, young or old, who has never had anything in print before.

Charles Yu’s first published story, “Problems for Self-Study” (HR 23), leapt out at us not just because of its eccentric presentation (which might as easily have worked against it), but because it miraculously managed to pack a complex and moving human drama into the rigid confines of a formal outline. A clever and quirky illustration of the principle of expressive form, the story examines the limitations of a schematic worldview in the face of such messy human emotions as love. Yu, who practices law in California, has gone on to publish both a novel, How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe (Pantheon, 2010), and a short story collection, Third Class Superhero (Mariner, 2006).

Jason Lewis’s story, “Rodolfo and Nélida” (HR 33), was another, quite different kind of pleasure. Pulled from the slush pile by a reader, it impressed us all with its vitality and freshness. A rough, lively, unexpected tale about drug runners and romance, it was all the more refreshing to us in New England because of its southwestern setting. In 2007 the author’s biographical note read: “Jason Lewis is a twenty-four-year-old college drop-out with a novel in progress. He was born in Texas, raised in Minnesota, and currently makes his home in New Mexico. This is his first publication.” Whether he went on to finish either the novel or the degree we unfortunately don’t know, but we think he made a promising beginning.

Problems for Self-Study
Rodolfo and Nélida

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