‘an orange plastic basket of compost / down from the top of the garden – sweet dark, / fibrous rot, promising’
I’m carrying an orange plastic basket of compost
down from the top of the garden – sweet dark,
fibrous rot, promising – when the light changes
as if someone’s flipped a switch that does
what? Reverses the day. Leaves chorusing,
dizzy. And then my mother says
– she’s been gone more than thirty years,
not her voice, the voice of her in me –
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.
‘Behind every man I want to kiss lies that original desire, which it is my nature and my fate to displace.’
‘Does it make you a little ghostly yourself, when what’s gone is more present for you than what’s here?’
Will Self and Mark Doty's discussion with Granta publisher Sigrid Rausing about blood, the surprising relationship between Bram Stoker and Walt Whitman and the nature of addiction.
‘When I was seventeen, a freshman in college living in my parents’ house, I met Ruth at a poetry reading.’
‘The city is a sea that can swallow you at any time, a monster that can lash out without warning, a hell of variables and uncertainties.’
