by Rosalind Palermo Stevenson
The Absent’s themes are one and many, connecting as they are layered: early photography, 19th century Philadelphia, the resonant voices of women, the fusion of landscape and man, westward expansion, grief and mourning, memento mori. Rosalind Palermo Stevenson’s poetic prose narrative is a meditation that travels between east and west and interior and exterior; a meditation driven by the narrator’s desire to render, with his mind and with his camera, what is absent present.
An astonishing combination of dreaminess and precision.
—Mary Gordon, The Liar’s Wife; Pearl; Final Payments
What is perhaps most extraordinary of The Absent's many achievements is its egalitarian voice. Its singular lyricism evokes a hallucinatory vision in which every element of the interior self finds an exterior and crystalline lucidity. The texture and contours of consciousness, what we recognize as the images of our obsessions, quotidian objects replete with their psychic claims, ambient light and dust-- Palermo Stevenson is attentive to the urgency of each. Every sentence offers evidence of the intricacies of our personal fugue.
—Lloyd Lynford, The Quality of the Affection
Rosalind Palermo Stevenson is the author of the books Kafka At Rudolf Steiner’s and Insect Dreams. Insect Dreams has also been published in the anthologies: Poe’s Children (edited by Peter Straub) and Trampoline (edited by Kelly Link). Her short fiction and prose poems have appeared in literary journals, including: Drunken Boat; Web Conjunctions; Skidrow Penthouse; Spinning Jenny; First Intensity; Washington Square; Works [of fiction] In Progress; River City; Literal Latte; Italian Americana; Quick Fiction; No Roses Review; and Reflections. She lives in New York City.
by Rosalind Palermo Stevenson
I had a dream last night of taxidermy. In some strange corner of my mother’s house; that is, my mother’s and my aunt’s house—the two of them absent. But Lucie Beale was with me in the dream. We were on the floor sitting talking like Indians, as though we were children playing, the way as a child I used to play on the floor beneath the dining room table. There was a wolf with us on the floor, or was it a fox, if a fox a large one, although remembering the dream it looked more like a wolf. Sprawled on its side like a dog sleeping, but it was a wolf that had been skinned and stuffed. I began petting it in the dream, though Lucie Beale refused to pet it, and as I was petting it,
it came back to life and leapt up and ran away.
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