'"So, our last night of socialism," Dzung said as he squatted down beside me. I pulled two cigarettes out of my pocket and handed one to him, but didn't reply.'
‘So, our last night of socialism,’ Dzung said as he squatted down beside me. I pulled two cigarettes out of my pocket and handed one to him, but didn’t reply. Instead, I nudged my little brother, Bien, and sent him off to find somewhere to sleep in the house behind us. We had been told to asse…
Sign in to Granta.com.
‘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.
‘I turn to O’Connor’s music when I get tired of lying to myself. Her songs are allegorical free-falls. Spiritual chiaroscuros, even.’
Momtaza Mehri on Sinéad O’Connor.
‘Only from a distance does the observer understand the object that remained an enigma from close up.’
Fiction by Deniz Utlu, translated by Jackie Smith.
‘Are you talking as Laleh now, or as the Islamic Republic of Iran? I don’t say anything.’
Fiction by Shida Bazyar, translated by Ruth Martin.
‘Parents should not have to bury their children. I will come to you, she whispers.’
Fiction by Himali McInnes.
