My name is Lily Campendonc. A long time ago I used to live in Lisbon.
I lived in Lisbon between 1929 and 1935. A beautiful city, but melancholy.
Boscán, Christmas 1934: ‘We never love anyone. Not really. We only love our idea of another person. It is some conception of our own that we love. We love ourselves, in fact.’
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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.
’I once heard a theory about this town, this place where we work and wrangle, where we swindle and swive‘.
Granta 100: One Hundred’s guest-editor on the challenge of putting together a milestone issue.
‘What is the point of rising early? I congratulate myself if I'm out of bed before midday.’
‘On one of the sunniest of bright May mornings, Senator Dom Liceu Maximiliano Lobo needlessly ran his comb through his neat goatee and ordered his chauffeur to pull into the side of the road.’
‘My sisters, I am sure, were immune to suicide’s powerful contagion.’
'Hips. Some never have them. Most have them but lose them. A few have them and keep them.'
