‘If you were twenty in the summer of 1967, San Francisco was the only place to be.’
If you were twenty in the summer of 1967, San Francisco was the only place to be. The number one song told us all to wear flowers in our hair, as we were going to meet some gentle people there.
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‘Then the wolves began to howl. After that, it was winter.’
A story by Angela Carter from Granta 3: The End of the English Novel.
‘If our fear was a landscape, it would be a prairie, a great plain.’
An essay by Cal Flyn from Granta 153: Second Nature.
‘It had not been dead for long. In fact, she had not checked that it was dead at all.’
A story set in rural Wales, by Elizabeth O’Connor.
‘All of it is wolf country; nowhere is a wolf to be seen’
An essay by Adam Nicolson from Granta 128: American Wild.
‘he is Bête du Gévaudan / killer-wolf and loup-garou’
Two poems by Pascale Petit.
A Kenyan journalist falls in love with the Tizita, popularly called Ethiopian blues, in this extract from Mũkoma Wa Ngũgĩ’s new novel.
‘The day we moved into the neighborhood, the house next door was in ruins, it was an inaccessible, absent place.’
Fiction by Gonzalo Baz, translated by Christina MacSweeney.
‘And it wasn’t that day, or the day after, but sometime after that, you cried in your kitchen.’
‘This makes more sense to me as a bodily practice: that desire to push one’s physical limits well beyond their natural bounds.’
‘I was trying simultaneously to numb the grief I felt and to burrow into that grief, so I could stand in it.’
‘IT can always tell when you’re reading somewhere in the house,’ my mother used to...
