DONALD BRECKENRIDGE is the Fiction Editor of the Brooklyn Rail and co-editor of InTranslation.
JUL-AUG 2014 | Music
I first heard White Fence in a record store a few years ago. Family Perfume Vol 2 was playing while I was digging through the stacks, and I thought that I was listening to a Pebbles compilation; maybe these were some forgotten songs between volumes 7 and 9.
NOV 2014 | Fiction
A flowering tree, on the other hand, gives forth its essence when it reaches that stage known as full bloom, and in doing so, it emanates a mysterious aura comparable to the state of perfect stillness approached by a fast-spinning top, or perhaps the fleeting sensory impressions roused by a spectacular musical performance, or something like the afterglow that follows the burning act of consummation. It is this beauty, wondrous and vivacious, that never ceases to captivate the human spirit.
from Under the Cherry Blossoms by Motojirō Kajii, translated from the Japanese by Bonnie Huie
AUTUMN 2002 | Fiction
Bill looked up at the faint shadows the candlelight projected on the ceiling of his study and whispered, People need illusions, it gives them a sense of security.
NOV 2014 | Fiction
Reason, however, had soured on the vine. That and civilization itself, which struck me now as rotting ever onwardzombielike. I rejected them both at once and turned to the jungle in favor of a savages noble heart. Almost immediately, I was assaulted by a wind of a most disgusting naturea hot, sulfurous wind, not for the faint of heart. I stuck my nose in it only to draw conclusions, mind you, and came away convinced that all forms of life must have a common ancestry. So much for the jungle.
from Russell by Daniel Grandbois
NOV 2005 | Music
Mark E. Smitha well-read dockworker and the self-professed psychic son of a plumberhad his brain lit up by the seemingly endless possibilities of punks first wave and, more important, its American roots in the late-'60s sonic garage assaults of The Stooges and the demonic blues howls of Captain Beefheart.
MAY-JUNE 2001 | Fiction
Sophias reflection shivered. I removed my hands from my front pockets and cracked my knuckles. She gently blew into the black coffee while holding the cup beneath her lips.