‘Gao Xingjian, what have you never done that you would like to do?’
‘Music. Inside of me there is a rhythm. But it’s very complicated to make it real.’
Image © Hervé Simon
‘Gao Xingjian, what have you never done that you would like to do?’
‘Music. Inside of me there is a rhythm. But it’s very complicated to make it real.’
Image © Hervé Simon
‘I think there should be a National Service of Hospitality. The best way to see the true face of humanity is to serve it a plate of chips.’
Camilla Grudova on bad-mannered customers.
‘Anyone who has ever worked night shifts will understand the vertiginous feeling that comes with staring down the day from the wrong end.’
A.K. Blakemore on working nights.
‘I was constantly reading job ads, trying to find my holy grail – a job I could stand to do, and someone foolish enough to hire me.’
Sandra Newman on learning how to play professional blackjack.
‘I loved being a receptionist. What I loved about it was playing the part of being a receptionist.’
Emily Berry on being a temporary office worker.
‘Every part of you would swell, including your eyeballs, and no matter how much water you drank, you were always dehydrated.’
Junot Díaz on working for a steel mill.
Gao Xingjian is a Chinese émigré and later French naturalised novelist, playwright, critic, painter, photographer, film director, and translator who in 2000 was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.
More about the author →
‘An intense workout is an ecstasy of punishment packaged as self-improvement.’
Mary Wellesley on exercise, ritual and Barry’s Bootcamp.
‘Feelings can be very obscure but numbers never lie.’
Kevin Brazil on metrics, obsession and fitness.
‘The islanders held him in a large dog cage under a banyan tree by the village square, awaiting the day when someone would convey him to a prison camp.’
Fiction by Tong Wei-Ger, translated by Tony Hao.
‘When they repeated that word, “stalking”, it didn’t click. Because you can’t stalk your best friend.’
Fiction by Sarah Perrin.
‘She has been ten for a month and she does not like it. She carries the weight of her extra digit like a chain-mail vest.’
Fiction by Sara Baume.
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