But not the worst thing than can happen.
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‘I’m the one who got away, the one you don’t know; I’m the long hairs you find under your pillow, nested in your drain, tangled in your brush.’
But not the worst thing than can happen.
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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.
Melanie Rae Thon was born in 1957 in Kalispell, Montana. She graduated from the universities of Michigan and Boston, and has lived in Arizona and New York, where she taught in the graduate creative writing program at Syracuse University. She has published three novels, Meteors in August (1990), lona Moon (1993), and Sweet Hearts (2001), and two short story collections, Girls in the Grass (1991) and First, Body (1997). In 1996 she was named as one of Granta's Best of Young American Novelists, and she has twice been a recipient of the National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. She is currently professor of English at the University of Utah.
More about the author →‘You see that the only thing that seems to move in its atmosphere is dust suspended against a fine thread of sunlight, that time itself sleeps lazily on the stupefied clocks.’
‘Is there in fact a jostling for dominance between the art forms, some barely suppressed competitiveness?’
Adam Mars-Jones on music and ceremony.
‘His fear was that we would die in front of him and so he thought of us all the time, which is not what he wanted.’
Fiction by Mazen Maarouf.
‘Into the carrot-coloured bag, alongside my clothes, I put the box with Mama’s urn.’
An excerpt from Oksana Vasyakina’s Wound, translated from the Russian by Elina Alter.
‘She shifts, half in shadow. Whatever else, she's certainly a child. No one is with her.’
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