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‘ My stunningly crummy apartment–there were big holes in the walls and I lay awake nights worrying about how they got there’.
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‘The flirtations of insects and plants are furtive, hidden and often so brief that if you literally blink you might miss what exactly is going on.’
Dino J. Martins on moths and orchids, from Granta 153: Second Nature.
‘The origin of the dysfunctional family: spores. / Friend or foe? True fern or ally?’
Poems by Sylvia Legris, author of Garden Physic.
‘And the trees were safely tucked in. Their roots were rallying in the soil, in this coil. Would the woman also take a turn for the better in her last decade?’
Three stories by Diane Williams.
‘walking alone down a country road – / distracted by the slightly annoying and toxic / first green of spring, eyes overflowing’
A poem by Emily Skillings.
‘Whatever the aftermath, you won’t see the city again except through the agency of absence, recalling this semi-emptiness, this viral uncertainty.’
From 2020: China Miéville on the UK government’s response to coronavirus.
Todd McEwen was born in California in 1953 and graduated from Columbia University in New York in 1975. He worked in broadcasting, theatre and the rare book trade before settling in Scotland in 1981. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife, novelist Lucy Ellman. Several of his stories have been published by Granta magazine. This is his fourth novel. Todd McEwen was born in California in 1953 and graduated from Columbia University in New York in 1975. He worked in broadcasting, theatre and the rare book trade before settling in Scotland in 1981. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife, novelist Lucy Ellman. Several of his stories have been published by Granta magazine. This is his fourth novel.
More about the author →‘Characteristically my wife refused to be drawn into the situation while I became obsessed with it.’
Americans, speaking of foreign lands, often say, 'It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.'
‘None of these high-falutin pansy-ass would-be 'technologies' are going to save literature.’
‘North by Northwest isn't a film about what happens to Cary Grant, it's about what happens to his suit.’
‘Against each wall stands an ornate throne—junk, dark Victorian junk, pulled by crowbar twenty years ago from the old lodge in the doomed downtown. Sitting on each is a battered looking Elk in a frayed tuxedo or black suit, his shoes cracked as the skin around his eyes. You feel sure they will sleep, and soon.’
Three months this man’s been off the farm – go back now, back to diesel,...
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