‘It was really just one visual idea: a woman standing at the end of the Cobb and staring mysteriously out to sea.’
In 1966 John Fowles and his first wife Elizabeth moved from London to a farmhouse near Lyme Regis on the Dorset coast. Two years later he moved to the town itself—a town with literary antecedents, because it was from the steps on Lyme Regis’s old stone pier known as the Cobb that Louisa Musgrove…
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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.
‘The hard thing, as Alice saw it, was that something bad had happened to her and it was private and then it wasn’t.’
‘The closest I come to meditating is sitting in front of a tumble dryer with a dead magazine.’
‘We are real in an unreal reality, which we’re told is really real and that we’re actually unreal.’
