‘Maybe they're worried that their absence will be noticed. Maybe they just want to come home.’
America was my foreground, familiar and known: the crowds, the voices, Captain Kangaroo and Mr Magoo, the great, westbound trains that clattered and tilted past the crossing as my father and I sat waiting in the car on Orchard Road. Behind it, though, for as long as I can remember, was the Old World…
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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.
‘Every marriage is forged differently; some crack at a touch, others endure beyond belief, still others are tempered by events and time.’
‘It was in January, I think. That weekend, more than any other, the thought of her leaving seemed impossible.’
‘She is thorough in a way that is off putting to people. It makes for a good secretary, not a good conversationalist.’
Fiction by Madeline Cash.
‘I turn to O’Connor’s music when I get tired of lying to myself. Her songs are allegorical free-falls. Spiritual chiaroscuros, even.’
Momtaza Mehri on Sinéad O’Connor.
‘My Czech family’s house stands on a geopolitical rift: it occupies a place the political storms sweep through, uprooting everything that is settled.’
An essay by Anna Parker.
Three months this man’s been off the farm – go back now, back to diesel,...
