‘On Friday 20 March 1998 at ten-thirty in the morning I was lying in the bath, washing my hair’.
On Friday 20 March 1998 at ten-thirty in the morning I was lying in the bath, washing my hair. I came up from under the soapy water, finished rinsing out the shampoo, then turned off the shower attachment. In the silence that followed, I realized that I could hear a woman’s high-pitched screams an…
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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.
‘It’s almost impossible to describe how it feels to believe in God. There really aren’t words elevated enough to explain it.’
‘At a time when China has become a unifying specter of menace for Western governments, this issue of Granta brings the country’s literary culture into focus.’
The editor introduces the issue.
‘Fiction is a kind of spell, I said, and analysing a story is an exorcism. It loses all its mystery.’
Fiction by Zhang Yueran, translated by Jeremy Tiang.
‘Lu Dong is a fifth-rate actor – that’s by his own ranking system.’
Fiction by Shuang Xuetao, translated by Jeremy Tiang.
‘For more than twenty years, photographer Feng Li has been documenting the people and backdrops of Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan province, and one of the fastest growing cities on earth.’
Photography by Feng Li, introduced by Granta.
‘Outside, a technicolour sunset is giving way to the silvery sweep of searchlights, as a hand tugs the blackout curtain across the sky.’
