‘The dead are—always—masterpieces of literature.’
That old-fashioned boy, that sepia-coloured boy sitting under the walnut table where they’ve set his brother’s coffin, is called James Matthew Barrie, and he’s six years old, and he’s pretending to hide from a terrible pirate. They won’t find him here, he’s sure of it, hidden by the skir…
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‘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.
