• The Conglomerate
    Adam Ross

    A letter from the editor of the Sewanee Review regarding the Corona Correspondences, an ongoing series of letters from contributors and friends of the Review. The latest letter will be featured on the homepage of the website. A complete archive of these letters can be found here and on SR's blog, The Conglomerate.

    The Conglomerate
    Adam Ross

    This issue is ready for your consumption, when all of us need something good to read, when truth and beauty are, in my opinion, the most effective antidote to the Coronavirus Task Force briefings and the foggy lack of concentration we’re all suffering from—“viral time,” it’s been dubbed—this slowed state in which we shelter in place while being inundated at the greatest possible speed with crisis-level amounts of life-or-death information.

    Media, Podcast

    In which editor Adam Ross interviews bestselling author Stephanie Danler about her upcoming memoir Stray. In this episode, Danler discusses the differences between writing fiction and memoir and gives the listener a behind-the-scenes look into how a book gets refined in its final stages of editing

    Shana Minkin and Frank Tota

    In which we hear from Shana Minkin in Sewanee, Tennessee and Frank Tota in Stuart, Florida.

    Online Feature
    Garth Greenwell

    The argument I want to make is that Carl Phillips has used sex as a mode of philosophical inquiry—“fucking a way forward,” as he puts it in a poem from Silverchest, sex, as he writes in another poem from the same volume, having “at last become / an added sense by which to pass ungently but more / entirely across a life.”

    The Conglomerate
    Adam Ross

    It’s already been a hard winter. Like our cover image, the nation seems to be buried in the impeachment mess, snowed in by snow jobs, blinded by white out. And no forecast predicts a change in this oppressive political weather.

    Poetry
    Evie Shockley

    going through the oceans of files, talking
      of boys who were no angels? no. to serve is
    a right and our duty, each to each—but
      the potential juror peers into the courtroom
    as if it were quarantined for the plague.

    Fiction
    Myla Goldberg

    Beyond the car seat or the doctor’s prescription, Erin just wasn’t up to the sight of all those other children: the toddlers, the nursing infants, the drooling babies. PARK—anonymous, failed—was the place that fit.

    Nonfiction
    T.J. Stiles

    I don’t mean the way New York itself hardens you through constant friction with endless streams of people, their pettiness and self-absorption rubbing against your own until you are encased in a shell of indifference and even cruelty. I mean he solidified me. He gave me substance I had lacked.

    Poetry
    B. H. Fairchild

    and I thank her, and once again I know as if by
    physical touch alone the innocence and kindness
    of the hopeful before the world disappoints them

    Fiction
    Cally Fiedorek

    There are plenty other private types: a disgraced Exxon executive—here he comes now scooting past my house, yielding for an armadillo—a turncoat from the Jersey mob, with new veneers. I’m former CIA. Here in Portofino Palms the living’s easy, and the big sun blights the shadows of the omertà.

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