‘Let me tell you, boyo, bach: I love this place, where green hills shelter me from fear.’
Let me tell you, boyo, bach: I love this place,
where green hills shelter me from fear,
jet fighters dance like dragonflies
mating over unsteady, unafraid lambs,
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Ariel Saramandi on her experience teaching in a lycée in Mauritius.
Fiction by Sidik Fofana, set in the South.
Kevin Maxwell on the police in the UK.
Morgan Parker and Rachel Long in conversation.
Poetry by Danez Smith, author of Don't Call Us Dead.
‘It’s often said that writers should never explain their work, but perhaps we could agree that these are exceptional circumstances.’
‘Damn, brother. You saw what they did to my face? / Poked out my eyes. Knocked teeth out of place’.
‘You open a book by a writer you’ve never heard of and a new voice leaps off the page and makes you listen.’
‘I'm not quite the same person as the ‘me’ about whom the book is written.’
‘Today, it seems, was the day I was meant to die.’ Translated from the Bosnian by Celia Hawkesworth.
