Daniel imagined that his body quivered to throw off the last reverberations of anguish, but he knew even that primitive reflex had been denied him. Though his mind was in riot, he was perfectly still. Nothing moved. Nothing moved. If the air passed across his face, he could not feel it, and no muscle trembled in response. He attempted to work his throat, his palate, to give a final "Aaaahhh . . . . ," one that was for himself alone and not for them, his two lady inquisitors. But these organs must have become spent with their effort. He was a tomb.

          Pamela Erens

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The Literary Review: An International Journal of Contemporary Writing has been published quarterly by Fairleigh Dickinson University since 1957. Its many special issues have introduced new fiction, poetry, and essays from many nations, regions, or languages to English readers. Issues focus on such topics as contemporary fiction in Portugese, Iranian exiles, new Irish writing, North African authors, and Philippine fiction and poetry. Works from issues devoted to writing in English have won awards and been reprinted in many collections.

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Spring 2001 | Welsh Writers | Poems and Sources | People, Patterns, Places | Filipino Writers | Vietnamese Writers | Prego Venice! | Winter 99 | Fall 98
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