In 1949, my mother, having nursed her husband through tertiary syphilis, divorced him. In the same year, Aunt Em’s husband died of TB. It seemed only natural that they should seek consolation for their loss in each other’s company. My mother, my brother and I moved into the little terraced house…
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‘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.
‘Separation has been, perhaps, the single biggest determining influence in my life.’
‘Love was no longer encoded in recognised behaviours, but became subject to private desires and idiosyncratic needs.’
‘My mother’s cry rang in my ears from infancy. ‘No child of mine is going into a shoe factory.’’
‘If provincial life still exists, it does so only residually and is doomed to eventual extinction.’
‘Leni’s last image of her mother is from the rear window of the car.’
