Granta | The Home of New Writing

Explore Essays and memoir

Mistaken | State of Mind

Mary Ruefle

‘I take it, if only as a substitute for my unknown name’

Mohsin Hamid | Is Travel Writing Dead?

Mohsin Hamid

‘I have come to believe that we are all migrants, that the experience of migration unites all human beings.’

Monster | State of Mind

Margo Jefferson

‘Today’s a day for you to feel blocked and impeded; a coward in work and love; resenting duty; suspecting pleasure.’

Morwari Zafar | Is Travel Writing Dead?

Morwari Zafar

‘What satellites and the internet don’t do is give a voice to experience. And that’s where travel writing endures.’

Mountains Don’t Know Borders

Lois Parshley

‘In the Balkans, the present is often perched precariously on top of the past.’

Notes on a Suicide

Rana Dasgupta

‘The problem was that, for the most part, it did not matter how widely broadcast your discontent was: no one cared.’

Rana Dasgupta on digital celebrity and a suicide in the banlieues of Paris.

Nothing to be afraid of | State of Mind

Anil K. Seth

‘Life in the first person is both magical and terrifying. But it is circumscribed.’ Anil K. Seth on the ties between our brains, bodies and consciousness.

Old School

Xan Rice

‘Apartheid had marked him, as it has marked all of us, in different ways. It made me hyper-aware of colour.’

Olivia Laing | Is Travel Writing Dead?

Olivia Laing

‘Which bodies can go where might be the central question of our century.’

On Jesus’ Son

Eli Goldstone

‘Jesus’ Son is a song, a glorious clear hymn, full of the notes of bad decisions, of rotten fucking luck, of causing real and lasting damage to yourself and to the people around you.’

On the Road

Janine di Giovanni

‘But I still get homesick, that vast and deep pit in the stomach, every time I go away.’

One Picture, A Thousand Words

Charles Glass & Don McCullin

‘I think they are not on the right path. It’s wrong. What they are doing is wrong.’

Out of the Cell

Pico Iyer

‘I was inside a silence that was not an absence of noise so much as the living presence of everything I habitually walked – or sleep-walked – past.’