I shall miss you so much when I am dead
For copyright reasons this poem is unavailable online. To read Harold Pinter’s ‘Poem (To A)’, purchase Granta 100.
I shall miss you so much when I am dead
For copyright reasons this poem is unavailable online. To read Harold Pinter’s ‘Poem (To A)’, purchase Granta 100.
‘The anglophone world, we have to infer, has run out of words for its own feelings.’
Daisy Hildyard on the wisdom of scarecrows.
‘What is the read receipt for?’
Lillian Fishman on texting, power and the ethics of leaving a friend on read.
‘Like pretty much everyone who uses the internet, I have seen many terrible things that I did not search for and that I cannot unsee.’
Rosanna McLaughlin on what the internet thinks she wants.
‘I have a pathological addiction to the internet, which I indulge with the excuse of making art. It rarely translates to anything good and mostly leaves me overstimulated and afraid.’
Paul Dalla Rosa on excess and the internet.
‘rumors of bees on speedwell, / no oxidative stress just / effortless pollination’
Two poems by Sylvia Legris.
Harold Pinter was born in London in 1930 and was married to Antonia Fraser. He was the author of twenty-nine plays, twenty-one screenplays and directed twenty-seven theatre productions, including James Joyce’s Exiles, David Mamet’s Oleanna and seven plays by Simon Gray. His awards included the Companion of Honour for services to Literature and the Molière d’honneur for lifetime achievement. In 2005, he received the Nobel Prize for Literature. He died on Christmas Eve, 2008.
More about the author →‘Shakespeare writes of the open wound and, through him, we know it open and know it closed. We tell when it ceases to beat and tell it at its highest peak of fever‘, Harold Pinter in 'A Note on Shakespeare' in Granta 59: France: The Outsider.
‘Words only point to experience, they can’t replace it.’
Vanessa Onwuemezi and Colin Herd discuss UFOs, relation, and the search for an inner sense of home.
New fiction from Jessi Jezewska Stevens. ‘Debt is the molten bedrock upon which all else shifts.’
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