In celebration of our thirteen-month anniversary, we’re offering a special on all twelve of the titles we’ve published so far: from now until November can buy any 2 Open Letter books for $22. And when you do (and hopefully you will—this is a killer bargain!), you’ll automatically be entered into a drawing to win a free one-year subscription.
(So, if you’re one of those lucky people, you could end up with 12 books for $22 . . . )
And if I might make a suggestion: I would highly recommend getting a copy of Jan Kjaerstad’s The Discoverer. The book just came out and is going to be reviewed in the October 25th issue of the New York Times Book Review. (Our first Times review!) And as a sneak preview, next week we’ll be serializing a chunk of the novel on the website . . .
One hundred years have passed since the start of World War I and it is difficult to believe that there are still novels, considered classics in their own countries, that have never been published in English. Perhaps it was the. . .
In the London of Hédi Kaddour’s Little Grey Lies, translated by Teresa Lavender Fagan, peace has settled, but the tensions, fears, and anger of the Great War remain, even if tucked away behind stories and lies. Directly ahead, as those. . .
One of the greatest services—or disservices, depending on your viewpoint—Bertrand Russell ever performed for popular philosophy was humanizing its biggest thinkers in his History. No longer were they Platonic ideals, the clean-shaven exemplars of the kind of homely truisms that. . .
The best way to review Alejandra Pizarnik’s slim collection, A Musical Hell, published by New Directions as part of their Poetry Pamphlet series, is to begin by stating that it is poetry with a capital P: serious, dense, and, some. . .
Upon completing Albertine Sarrazin’s Astragal I was left to wonder why it ever fell from print. Aside from the location, Astragal could pass as the great American novel. Its edginess and rawness capture the angst and desires we all had. . .
When my eyes first crossed the back cover of Fabio Genovesi’s novel Live Bait, I was caught by a blurb nestled between accolades, a few words from a reviewer for La Repubblica stating that the novel was, however magically, “[b]eyond. . .
“I preferred the war to the plague,” writes Curzio Malaparte in his 1949 novel, The Skin. He speaks of World War II and the destruction it has wrought on Italy, the city of Naples in particular. But the plague he. . .