‘I asked where the path was to the rapids. He looked at me as if all his suspicions had been confirmed.’
The double-decker bus had wing mirrors that protruded on stalks and between them, above the driver’s head, was a row of bug-eyed headlamps, extinguished now at half past seven in the morning. It had been light for five hours. We were driving northwards on a broad, empty road through the forest. So…
Sign in to Granta.com.
‘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.
‘She acted as if her own desires magnetized the world, and when you were close to her, she magnetized your moral compass too.’
‘What I needed was to gaze into the surface, and, by gazing, to pass into another world, and breathe.’
‘He takes the knife, cuts the barb from the body, sends it back to the depths of the river.’
An extract from Not a River by Selva Almada, translated by Annie McDermott.
‘I could hear the sea, and I could hear my own name.’
Fiction by Eliza Clark.
Rebecca Watson on the life of the man who prototyped fascism, the Italian writer Gabriele D’Annunzio
