‘Petya Pravda's dead. He died forty days ago, as elongated and translucent as an icon.’
Petya Pravda’s dead. He died forty days ago, as elongated and translucent as an icon. His mother found him in the morning, and straight away set up a wail that brought in the neighbours: Pyotr! Petya! My little Petya! And they hurried in, old Kolya hitching up his belly, stinking of hangover, Mari…
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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.
‘In these circumstances man becomes like an animal: silent and bowed. You never said a word.’
‘Where do crimes begin and end, and who, decades later, can be held responsible?’
‘When I was a child I seemed to live in a fog of inattention which cleared only when I was alone.’
‘Naples had always been high on the list of places I wanted to visit‘.
This will not be the last crisis. What can we learn from this one?
