‘I can write about this now only because enough time has passed.’
I can write about this now only because enough time has passed. I have moved on—covered other stories, lived in other countries, found another man to love. But for a long time it was impossible even to talk about what happened, let alone write about it. For a long time I—who prided myself on my …
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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.
‘This is how it starts, my yearning to escape: with a snot-green triangular stamp from Qatar.’
‘In the summer of 1990, tens of thousands of Liberians died in a civil war of remarkable brutality. Many more starved to death'.
A journalist receives a troubling call about a friend in this excerpt from Madeleine Bunting’s new novel Ceremony of Innocence.
‘Pictures from some cities in Latin America: the burning in front of the family home of the dead who are not collected by the state.’
A coronavirus diary from the Portuguese writer Gonçalo M. Tavares, translated by Daniel Hahn.
‘He was thirteen years old or just about and newly an only child. Newly not a child.’
