I liked my reflection in the nighttime glass, the way my body was almost translucent, its outline and features only hinted at, and the way the city lights and the black-green hole of the Park were contained within, and spilling out of, me. JUSTIN TORRES grew up in upstate New York. All rights reserved. I listened to Nigel; I watched him cry; I rummaged around inside myself and tried to find a memory, a hurt, that would enable me to cry as well. I watched a documentary about the naturalist John Muir last night and he was quoted as saying, “Civilization chokes the soul of man.” I’m not sure I agree with that, but I do think that it is easier to conceive of oneself as uncorrupted and good in an Edenic setting. Justin Torres, the author of We the Animals, is 31, a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, a Wallace Stegner Fellow, a former dog walker, and a former employee of Manhattan’s much-loved indie bookstore, McNally Jackson.Basically, the man was bred for literary royalty. The reflection of my white cotton underwear neared opacity, realness, and the gold chain with the gold feather glimmered. Everywhere in our apartment were plants, thriving. Justin Torres’s debut novel, We The Animals (released in September, 2011), has released a firestorm of critical praise. Pages PUBLISHER. It’s funny because I was considering it from the opposite direction—how explicitly do we align our interior lives with the setting around us? I thought to pick her up, but I was wearing a long black wool coat and our cat was very white. He explained this to us with wide sweeps of the flashlight. Justin Torres Q&A: Author of 'We the Animals' speaks to Shelf Life ... Having recently been published in The New Yorker, Torres took a moment before embarking on … Justin Torres has published short fiction in The New Yorker, Harper’s, Granta, Tin House, The Washington Post, Glimmer Train, Flaunt, and other publications, as well as nonfiction pieces in publications like The Guardian and The Advocate.A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Justin’s novel We the Animals has been translated into fifteen languages and was recently adapted into a film. No, we’re on the slope of a minor mountain, in the dark, wondering what in hell we’ve signed ourselves up for, and how’s it all going to play. 2011. The last scene (which is actually the first) is in a wild, lush, prelapsarian setting. The story could have proceeded chronologically, and shown the narrator growing remorseful and nostalgic—but it occurred to me that if the action of the story itself moved backward, all the harm he’s inflicted and the love he’s sacrificed would really come alive. Read more from Justin Torres on The New Yorker ... Justin Torres. “You’re sure about that,” Nigel said, too timid to curve the statement into a question. “Poke your head out,” he said. Underneath me, the floor grew somehow colder and harder. But I let that wind push and bite into my face, and I looked at the men—even then, I looked at all the men. I waited there, poised, fascinated, as the train approached and the eyes widened. It’s language and voice and imagery—but mostly language that I love. “The storm. “You’ll have to leave the car here,” the farmer said. Currently he serves as the Wallace Stegner fellow at Stanford University. Justin Torres, 33 New York, NY. The first scene in the story (which is the last, chronologically) takes place in a sterile Manhattan high-rise. More Books by Justin Torres See All. I handed Nigel his scarf, which he had knitted himself, poorly. Here—napkin. Use of this site constitutes acceptance of our User Agreement (updated as of 1/1/21) and Privacy Policy and Cookie Statement (updated as of 1/1/21) and Your California Privacy Rights. “Puerto Rican,” I said, pushing my hands into my back pockets and puffing out my chest. I did. Essay The Sordid Necessity of Living for Others. Justin Torres We The Animals "A miracle in concentrated pages—you are going to read it again and again." And anyway she just wants me, not us. I stood before him and Freddy made a motion to suggest that I come even closer, as what he had to say was only for me to hear, though we were alone in the lobby. It took three passes before we found the turnoff, an unmarked path of red dirt, two parallel paths, really, tire tracks, with grass growing in the middle. We’d missed an entire day of protests, because we were so taken with the seedlings and the greenhouse and the mountain and the old hippie back-to-the-lander who told us charming, paranoid stories and invited us to work for him in the summer, when he could use the extra hands. I opened my eyes; Nigel was standing in the bedroom doorway, watching me. The doorman introduced himself as Freddy and gave me a wink. Anyway, go home, I told you I had plans.”, “I told you—Caroline. Am I a trick?”. “Yeah,” Freddy said, grinning.