Hearing, they say, is the first of the senses we develop in the womb. For a certain time, inside our mothers’ bodies, the entire universe is a soundscape, nothing else exists.
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‘Hearing, they say, is the first of the senses we develop in the womb.’
Hearing, they say, is the first of the senses we develop in the womb. For a certain time, inside our mothers’ bodies, the entire universe is a soundscape, nothing else exists.
Sign in to Granta.com.
‘We meet at various points in the great swathes of the past that neither of us were alive to witness.’
Allen Bratton on a daytrip to a castle with his older boyfriend.
‘Listening to three white poets, whom I suspect are academics, talk about the state of poetry.’
Oluwaseun Olayiwola eavesdrops on an older generation.
‘I’d been dubious about his company at first.’
Sarah Moss on watching Shakespeare with her twelve-year-old son.
‘She didn’t trust us because, to her, tenants were like children.’
Kate Zambreno on negotiating with her older landlady.
‘A moment now swallowed in embarrassment, I asked a question only a young person might ask an older one.’
Lynne Tillman on trying to understand what makes a generation.
Robyn Davidson was born in Queensland, Australia and now lives between London and India. Specializing in nomadic lifestyles, her works include Tracks, Desert Places, Traveling Light, The Picador Book of Journeys, and No Fixed Address. Her first piece for Granta was ‘Marrying Eddie’ in issue 70.
More about the author →‘By the end of our journey together we had signally failed to understand each other, yet an unlikely, even unprecedented connection had formed.’
’Shortly after its publication in 1980 I was surprised to learn that I had written a travel book’.
‘Is there in fact a jostling for dominance between the art forms, some barely suppressed competitiveness?’
Adam Mars-Jones on music and ceremony.
‘gormandizing, gluttonous, lickerish, guttling’
Excerpts from Lydia Davis’s diary.
‘What happens to a dancer when they stop dancing?’
Diana Evans on dancing and writing.
‘One morning, more golden than yellow, I went outside to our housefront and saw that the beggars had gone.‘
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