reviewed by Elisa Mai
July 29th, 2014 | 6:00am

Reading Francine Prose’s new novel is a little like coming across a box of papers in a dusty attic that have been packed up together because they all, somehow, are connected to a certain person, and sifting through them one by one. Prose’s person of interest in Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 is Louisianne (“Lou”) Villars, an athlete and a lesbian, a cabaret club dancer and a racecar driver, a trailblazer for women and a spy, a woman who both aids the Nazis’ invasion of France and tortures members of the Resistance on their behalf. Because of this extraordinary set of exploits, and because Lou has been captured in a very famous photograph, someone is writing a biography of her, and the chapters of this biography form the heart of the novel.

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user Matt Bilton
Multiple Authors
July 25th, 2014 | 6:00am

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user Matt Bilton

Please welcome three poets who are new to our pages.
 

Upcoming print issues of The Common will feature poems by Will Schutt, Patrick Pritchett, and Kevin C. Stewart.

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user Lee Coursey
July 23rd, 2014 | 6:00am

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user Lee Coursey

I’m here on the patio, no appetite,
drinking a salty margarita. I feel
my liver, ignore it like last night’s
glass of water. I’m tired of writing
you down when I should be writing
poems about place.

Photo by Michael Meiser, licensed under Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA 2.0).
July 18th, 2014 | 6:00am

 

Photo by Michael Meiser, licensed under Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA 2.0).

1.
 

In May, I was abroad finishing a job, the kind that did not exist when I graduated high school. As I prepared to leave, northeast Ohio, where I grew up, came to me. I would fly down remembered winding gray roads. Sometimes I did this in my dreams. Sometimes the dream was different – I would drive out to the country but turn around because I didn’t know what to do out there, outside a car with only long grass and woods around me and no path to hike. The suburbs were my cradle. In the car from the airport to my childhood home, I realized that what I had thought of as flying was the feeling of the car tugging my shoulders in the backseat as we made familiar turns.

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user Lennert van den Boom
July 16th, 2014 | 6:00am

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user Lennert van den Boom

Our first week, you showed me around
your empty capital in a dream. We skipped

Parliament and headed down Calea Victoriei,
lit beeswax candles for the living,