Each week, The Paris Review unlocks stories, poems, and interviews for our readers from our archive. Sign up for the Redux newsletter to receive these pieces to your inbox every Sunday morning.

I'm looking forward to my death,” she said.I sat upright. I watched her blond hair sway,this college girl who taught our Sunday School.

The tail, held back along the spine, keeps them—most times—from kicking you. I don’t know why.

Well, he can sell the whole dog, the long, the short with all its parts, nothing missing, sliced and chunked. The bole, the bulk, the stem, the stalk, the hulk.

The letters which follow were written by Gertrude Stein to an obscure, struggling writer named Wendell Wilcox. He had seen Stein’s work in 1926 while he was an undergraduate at the University of ...

“After my best friend jumped off the bridge, I knew that I was next. So—Paris. With forty dollars and a one-way ticket.” ...