The world shall perish not for lack of wonders, but for lack of wonder.—Haldane
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‘Think of mitosis as trillions of slightly near-sighted, plagiarizing students’
The world shall perish not for lack of wonders, but for lack of wonder.—Haldane
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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.
Richard Powers is the author of nine novels including Plowing the Dark and The Time of Our Singing, which won the W. H. Smith Literary Award in 2004. His most recent novel, Generosity, was published in 2009. His is the recipient of numerous awards including a National Book Award in 2006 for The Echomaker.
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‘When they were working, Old Han held the tongs, Young Han swung the sledgehammer, and Old Third worked the bellows to raise the heat.’
A short story by Mo Yan, translated by Nicky Harman.
‘Are you here to accept punishment on the mayor’s behalf ? This is a great opportunity. People burn incense for a chance like this.’
A short story by Yan Lianke, translated by Carlos Rojas.
‘I see a gull in a car park and they can see the place where it metabolised water into feathers, food into energy, oxygen into blood.’ Stephen Rutt on what isotopes can tell us about birds.
‘At school, the primroses were coming out. Brighton was eleven, and every day now there was something new emerging.’
A story by Georgina Parfitt.
‘To be honest, this is dark stuff; mud, tang / of bitter battery-tasting honey. The woods are in it.’
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