‘You buy me things and then later you’ll think you bought me. I was never for sale.’
Seated at a dinner in Lahore one winter in the late 1970s, for the third time in a week Mr K.K. Harouni was forced to endure a conversation about a Rolls Royce coupé recently imported by one of the Waraiches, a family whom no one had heard of just five years before. The car had been specially modif…
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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.
‘Great translations are much rarer than great works of fiction or poetry.’
‘Early one morning in the month of June, someone ran over a huge black rooster on County Road W in Wisconsin hill country.’
‘Fundamentalist mangoes must have more texture; secular mangoes should have artificial flavouring.’
Seated at a dinner in Lahore one winter in the late 1970s, for the third...
‘They couldn’t put their finger on exactly what it was they craved, but they knew it was very different to what they had.’
Fiction by Vincenzo Latronico, translated by Sophie Hughes.
‘After one hundred years, this is what I have: a daguerreotype of her in bridal finery; a few stories told and retold in plantations, kitchens, hospitals, airport lounges.’
