HeyJaredL.A. Fatzinger
Novelist. An American in Salzburg, I write about what we've stopped noticing. The small, exact detail, the ordinary and the beautiful. What we lose when we're manipulated into the glance, the flick, the scroll. And what we gain when we truly look.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 4
- Latest publication
- Aug 3, 2026
- Audience
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 13, 2026
Latest issues
The Last Human Year Was 2021 (opens the original)
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I purchased a 56-year-old book from a flea market in Zell am See, Austria, yesterday. Lying open on the hot pavement in front of a man’s rickety old Fiat, set amongst his other bric-a-brac, it caught my eye because of its large format size and beautiful lithographs of European cities in the 19th century. Also, because of where it was placed, I was afraid my dog might relieve himself on it.Grabbing it before the dog’s snout met its pages, and four euro later, the book was mine.Following our drive
Two Billion Cameras. And No One to Photograph (opens the original)
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A couple weeks ago, I was seated in Caffè San Marco, in the Italian city of Trieste. I was photographing a small stack of books I was about to buy, placed on a marble table. This cafe is the spot where Svevo and Umberto Saba wrote and met, where James Joyce drank during the time he was writing Ulysses, and where writers, myself included, still try to find inspiration from the walls, the drinks, the people, and the books. Italo Svevo’s As a Man Grows Older was on top of the stack.I wasn’t taking
Phone Bans Won't Save Our Kids. Noticing Might. (opens the original)
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The whole anti-device, anti-social-media thing isn’t really working. Here’s my theory why, wrapped into a short story:My dad kept a liquor cabinet in the house I grew up in. Littleton, Colorado. When I was a teenager in the mid-80s, he told me not to raid it. Every friend from my neighborhood can tell you how well that worked out. My old man once served tap water and tonic to his employees. After that, he checked. Every time. (Miss you, pops.)I did what he told me not to do because he told me no
A Coast That Stays Foreign (opens the original)
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The bell tower is the tell. From the water, as you approach, it’s Venetian, a near-copy of the campanile in St Mark’s. And the town beneath it answers in Italian before it answers in Croatian.Old men playing cards in cafes bicker in a dialect, so says my waiter when I asked what all the verbal fuss was about. No hands marking each point. Oh, so we’re not in Italy. Got it. I’m here on book research, so I have already brushed up. This border has been drawn and redrawn for six hundred years: Venice
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