Black Clock 9

There they are, at the bottom of the magazine rack, in the back of the bookstore, on the edge of town: the new fall selection of literary magazines—glossy or matte, covered in author names or simply a snapshot of a girl in a field, labeled with their quirky (Aufgabe), humorous (Forklift, Ohio), or traditional (The Literary Review) names. Some of them will have a theme, such as Opium magazine’s recent Green issue, or the above-pictured latest issue of Black Clock—whose theme should be obvious. If you are lucky, your bookstore will carry a handful of them, so hopefully you have a few hours some Sunday to leaf through them and decide which one to take home. For those of you without that Sunday (or, like many of us, without a local bookstore that carries small circulation magazines) this issue of Luna Park offers excerpts from some exciting recent or upcoming issues of literary magazines this season. Enjoy.

Perhaps it is a difficult time to focus on literature. The national elections are approaching, stirring up great concern and anxiety among many. The Iraq War is in its fifth year, and the one in Afghanistan will hit its seven-year anniversary this October. Haitians are starving. Two days ago, arguably the nation’s most talented writer, David Foster Wallace, took his own life at the age of 46.

But, to greater and lesser extents, things are always this way. I think the reason David Foster Wallace was so greatly admired from within and without the literary world—quite a feat for a “postmodern” writer—was his writing seemed to illuminate some kind of truth about a frustrating world. And it did so gently, with its heart on its sleeve. At least for this reader, his writing made the world seem less lonely.

In an article Salon.com published today, Laura Miller writes about what Wallace’s writing meant to her:

I read about his characters, each tennis prodigy and recovering addict and transvestite hooker and yuppie and ad exec and game show contestant and closeted political aide, and thought: Hey, I know you. Maybe it was an illusion—Wallace would have been the first to admit as much—but it made me feel less alone, too.

-Travis Kurowski
September 13, 2008