Eli S. Evans
Eli S. Evans is a writer and a doctoral candidate in Comparative Literature at the University of California, Santa Barbara. He writes regularly for magazines such as N+1, in the United States, and Quimera, in Spain, and has work forthcoming from Zg Press and in a collection of essays about the late writer and social theorist Monique Wittig. His academic research
focuses on the intersections of modernity and postmodernity in twentieth century Spanish literature and philosophy.
Contributions
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 | | Joseba Elola’s long, scraggly hair, dark beard, and mottled features give him the look of the kind of guy you might find smoking hash in a plaza or drinking first coffee and then beer all day long inside a smoke-filled restaurant in the fashionably run-down Madrid neighborhood of Lavapíes, epicenter of the city’s anarchist subculture.
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|  | | Mariano Rajoy’s date with the Spanish presidency has arrived some eight years late. In 2004, as the handpicked successor to José María Aznar, Rajoy’s electoral victory was all but guaranteed.
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|  | | There is a moment in Jean-Luc Godard’s 1966 Masculin Feminin in which the character played by a young and brilliant Jean-Pierre Léaud claims that one day at home while eating mashed potatoes his father discovered why the earth goes round the sun.
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|  | | I was on my way home to Milwaukee for the weekend, somewhere in that brief stretch of no man’s land that separates the casino town of Dubuque, Iowa from the Wisconsin state line, when 2011 National League MVP Ryan Braun, whose appeal of a fifty game suspension for having tested positive last October for synthetic testosterone
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|  | | Not long after Wisconsin congressman Paul Ryan was announced as the Republican nominee for Vice President, a text message came in from a friend, a native New Yorker recently transplanted to somewhere in the rest of the world: “Wisconsin,” it read, “stop shitting all over America.” At the time I was in a bar in Western Massachusetts that I'd entered using my California driver's license, but my pride was wounded all the same.
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|  | | On the morning that, due to wind (a light breeze, in any event), Felix Baumgartner – “Fearless” Felix, as he is known by his supporters – was forced to abort his plan to float up to the “edge of space” (actually 128,000 feet, which is officially well short of the edge of space, but as far as I’m concerned past about twenty feet the differences become altogether nominal) in a capsule dangling from some manner of glorified hot air balloon
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