The characters in Eternal Night at the Nature Museum take refuge in strange, repurposed spaces. A middle-aged addict emcees at demolition derby, which transforms into a hostel—then a cult. An elderly folk-artist builds mailbox reproductions of her dream homes. A church congregates in an abandoned Hardee's. Octogenarians escape their nursing home. Unsupervised children sell knives to the neighborhood. In twenty vivid, rowdy, buoyant stories, Tyler Barton assembles a collection of places to crash, if only for the night.

The acclaimed editor of The New York Times Book Review takes readers on a nostalgic tour of the pre-Internet age, offering powerful insights into both the profound and the seemingly trivial things we've lost. NAMED ONE OF THE TEN BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY CHICAGO TRIBUNE AND THE DALLAS MORNING NEWS • “A deft blend of nostalgia, humor and devastating insights.”—People Remember all those ingrained habits, cherished ideas, beloved objects, and stubborn preferences from the pre-Internet age? They’re gone. To some of those things we can say good riddance. But many we miss terribly. Whatever our emotional response to this departed realm, we are faced with the fact that nearly every aspect of modern life now takes place in filtered, isolated corners of cyberspace—a space that has slowly subsumed our physical habitats, replacing or transforming the office, our local library, a favorite bar, the movie theater, and the coffee shop where people met one another’s gaze from across the room. Even as we’ve gained the ability to gather without leaving our house, many of the fundamentally human experiences that have sustained us have disappeared. In one hundred glimpses of that pre-Internet world, Pamela Paul, editor of The New York Times Book Review, presents a captivating record, enlivened with illustrations, of the world before cyberspace—from voicemails to blind dates to punctuation to civility. There are the small losses: postcards, the blessings of an adolescence largely spared of documentation, the Rolodex, and the genuine surprises at high school reunions. But there are larger repercussions, too: weaker memories, the inability to entertain oneself, and the utter demolition of privacy. 100 Things We’ve Lost to the Internet is at once an evocative swan song for a disappearing era and, perhaps, a guide to reclaiming just a little bit more of the world IRL.

“In the fall, I went for walks and brought home bones. The best bones weren’t on trails—deer and moose don’t die conveniently—and soon I was wandering so far into the woods that I needed a map and compass to find my way home. When winter came and snow blew into the mountains, burying the bones, I continued to spend my days and often my nights in the woods. I vaguely understood that I was doing this because I could no longer think; I found relief in walking up hills. When the night temperatures dropped below zero, I felt visited by necessity, a baseline purpose, and I walked for miles, my only objective to remain upright, keep moving, preserve warmth. When I was lost, I told myself stories . . .” So Charles D’Ambrosio recounted his life in Philipsburg, Montana, the genesis of the brilliant stories collected here, six of which originally appeared in The New Yorker. Each of these eight burnished, terrifying, masterfully crafted stories is set against a landscape that is both deeply American and unmistakably universal. A son confronts his father’s madness and his own hunger for connection on a misguided hike in the Pacific Northwest. A screenwriter fights for his sanity in the bleak corridors of a Manhattan psych ward while lusting after a ballerina who sets herself ablaze. A Thanksgiving hunting trip in Northern Michigan becomes the scene of a haunting reckoning with marital infidelity and desperation. And in the magnificent title story, carpenters building sets for a porn movie drift dreamily beneath a surface of sexual tension toward a racial violence they will never fully comprehend. Taking place in remote cabins, asylums, Indian reservations, the backloads of Iowa and the streets of Seattle, this collection of stories, as muscular and challenging as the best novels, is about people who have been orphaned, who have lost connection, and who have exhausted the ability to generate meaning in their lives. Yet in the midst of lacerating difficulty, the sensibility at work in these fictions boldly insists on the enduring power of love. D’Ambrosio conjures a world that is fearfully inhospitable, darkly humorous, and touched by glory; here are characters, tested by every kind of failure, who struggle to remain human, whose lives have been sharpened rather than numbed by adversity, whose apprehension of truth and beauty has been deepened rather than defeated by their troubles. Many writers speak of the abyss. Charles D’Ambrosio writes as if he is inside of it, gazing upward, and the gaze itself is redemptive, a great yearning ache, poignant and wondrous, equal parts grit and grace. A must read for everyone who cares about literary writing, The Dead Fish Museum belongs on the same shelf with the best American short fiction.

"Drunk ghosts, feral mothers...riveting obsessions and unbelongings and captivities-the fragmented texts in Beautiful, Violent Things seethe and grip and fluoresce without apology. In these eleven dispatches, Madeline Anthes carefully weaves desire and estrangement, reimagines power as a woman's capacity for hollowing a man, the ability to deliver impossibilities from her misappropriated body. The speakers in this collection compose a primal song, reprise-with blood and feathers and new ferocity-the iconoclastic feminisms of Kate Chopin and Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Anthes is alive on the page, a writer to watch." - Tara Stillions Whitehead, author of Blood Histories "I know these stories by Madeline Anthes. You know them too. They are the stories we whisper to each other: Mother to daughter, sister to sister, friend to friend. They are the stories about the things we want, the things we need, the things that have broken us, the things that have tried to break us. Listen closely to the voices in these stories -- you will find someone you know in them. You might even find yourself. This is a powerful debut collection from a gifted writer. We are lucky to have it." - Cathy Ulrich, author, Ghosts of You "The narrators in Beautiful, Violent Things want powerfully. They want to be seen, want to be left alone, want to hold their baby, want to want to hold their baby-but more than anything, they want you to listen to their voices. To the way the words sound coming from their mouths in a cold and specific arrangement. I am Wendy, chrome sleek and velvet fast: breathing heat and running wild. They want you to hear what lies just behind their words: the impossible problem of desire. A problem Anthes has studied like a scholar. Let's listen to what she's found-all these alluring, dangerous voices calling out." - Tyler Barton, author of Eternal Night at the Nature Museum "The stories in Beautiful, Violent Things are alive, visceral and raw, not just in the blunt emotional honesty of their narrators-women who know what they want, who feel the twisted pull of the lives they have and the ones they've given up to be mothers and lovers-but in the prose, so very warm with poetry and song. Anthes is a writer who understands how to make the quiet moments in life roar." - Christopher Gonzalez, author of I'm Not Hungry But I Could Eat