‘You can drink in a bar and sober up in the basement of a church, but everyone sleeps (or lies awake) in solitude.’
These are the ranks of the obsessive, the dissatisfied, the distorted, the strange: drug addicts, fetishists, compulsive cleaners, collectors of cats or snow globes or Caravaggios. Maybe everyone has something like this, large or small, pathological or merely unusual: something that serves, in the p…
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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.
‘She wanted to enjoy herself, she wanted to try, but she didn't know where to begin.’
‘How little one knows, really, about one’s parents.’
Memoir by Didier Eribon translated by Michael Lucey.
‘Our imaginations are in service to the wrong ends.’
Olivia Laing and M. John Harrison on the commodification of the imagination.
‘No one is alone in their bed anymore.’
An excerpt from Sleepless by Marie Darrieussecq, translated by Penny Hueston.
‘Those are only rumours of suffering. Real suffering has a face and a smell. And it knows your name.’
