In late 1980, Fay Weldon and Bill Buford, then editor of this magazine, discussed Granta...
In late 1980, Fay Weldon and Bill Buford, then editor of this magazine, discussed Granta 1, new American writing and gender politics. (Read a larger version of the letter here.)
The story about ‘women in a black hairdressers’ was written by J. K. Klaven and eventually appeared in Granta 3: ‘The End of the English Novel’.
Fay Weldon is the author of over twenty novels and five collections of short stories. She lives in London.
‘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.
Bill Buford on his decision to resign as editor of this magazine, which he relaunched in its present form in 1979.
‘Travel writing of most kinds, not just the humorous, has the history of colonialism perched on its shoulder.’
‘I knew he was a ‘strange’ writer, unclassifiable, with a boundless imagination, who was creating one of the most intriguing, thought-provoking bodies of work in the Spanish language.’
Jeanette Winterson reads from her new memoir, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal, and her story ‘All I Know About Gertrude Stein’ from Granta 115: The F Word.
‘I left the office just in time to get to Penn Station, find my track and hop onto my train. We pulled out into an afternoon grey and heavy with rain.’
‘The tombstones glimmered in the grass. But he felt only relief. The dead, tonight, were more companionable than the living.’
