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Best Book of 1987: The Door

Hannah Williams

‘Szabó offers a veneration of the rituals of the everyday, for how pride in what we do, in how we give to others, can elevate us.’ Hannah Williams on The Door by Magda Szabó, the best book of 1987.

Ludmila Ulitskaya | On Europe

Ludmila Ulitskaya

‘It seems clear to me that during the past ten years, Russia has reached the apex of its estrangement from Europe.’ Translated from the Russian by Polly Gannon.

Six Kilometres

Adam Weymouth

‘Migration will not stop: if there is a single lesson to be taken home from Lesbos it is that.’

How to Take a Literary Selfie

Sylvie Weil

Sylvie Weil on what it means to take a literary selfie. Translated from the French by Ros Schwartz.

Tale of Human Adventure

Diane Williams

‘The whole experience of writing this was enjoyable, as is the entire seriousness with which I take myself.’ New fiction by Diane Williams

Grief in Moderation

Diane Williams

‘The tiny daisies were scored by the shadows of the slats of the venetian blinds and the stripes were shivering.’ Diane Williams.

Hammer

Adrian Van Young

‘I shift my weight right, where the hammer hangs down. Then left, then right, then left again.’

Natural History

Eva Warrick

‘Vita thought she saw a handgun in her father’s underwear drawer.’

A Woman Screaming

Saskia Vogel

‘I realized that neither revenge nor compulsive storytelling would release me from this pain.’

My Writing Playlist

Ed Vulliamy

Ed Vulliamy on the nine best songs to listen to while you write.

The Resurgence of the Monstrous Feminine

Hannah Williams

‘Despite the sheer and uncommunicable amount of violence enacted upon the female body throughout history, it’s woman as terroriser, as beast, that we keep coming back to.’

Four Poems

Mark Waldron

‘Just look at those nasty trees flaunt / their leaves, each one a tra-la-la.’

The Little Winter

Joy Williams

‘She remembered being happy off and on that day, and then looking at things and finding it all unkind.’

Shrinks

Edmund White

‘Self-doubt, which is a cousin to self-hatred, became my constant companion.’