The Ghastly Albion Hotel
Comedy is hardly the first thing one associates with Sebald’s work, partly because his reputation was quickly associated with the literature of the Holocaust
Read MoreBe Better Buzzfeeders
Before the books arrived, Adam Gopnik, in an effort to be polite, almost contradicted the essential insight of his life.
Read MoreThe Second Annual Queer Translations Issue from Queen Mob’s Teahouse
The word translation itself contains the prefix trans, signifying movement rather than stability. Instead of thinking of translation as an exchange of “this” for “that” we are looking for pieces that somehow seek to retain the quality of movement and motion and change between languages and cultures.
Read MoreHis face goes ashen…
The opening scene of Rebecca Solnit’s essay “Men Explain Things to Me” is, by now, a familiar one, not only because it’s repeated so often whenever Solnit is written about
Read MoreLove Was Everything
There are certain things that when said are erotic no matter who says them or how they actually feel about you. Words that carry electricity, power, and charge inside of them.
Read MoreScherezade and Theophilus win!
Congratulations to Scherezade Siobhan and Theophilus Kwek, the winners of the second Berfrois Poetry Prize!
Read More‘Podcast listening carries with it a faint aura of cultural snobbery’
We are living through a great flowering of the podcast industry, whose province of iTunes is something like a frontier boomtown right now, teeming with hastily erected new storefronts.
Read MoreSubtitles have often been used to draw together linguistic communities….
Today I am visiting a hospital. When I enter the wards, I return to another world of voices. At the nurse’s station: Tagalog, Burmese, or Indonesian-accented Malay.
Read MorePROPER HAMBURGER
London rebrands as ‘Smart City’. So how dumb does that make me feel? How alienated and leaden-footed and stubbornly off-grid?
Read More‘Publishing can be a bitter war’
Publishing can be a bitter war between editors who love books and businessmen who love only money—but if you are lucky, it should not be.
Read MoreThe Dramatic Curtisism
When Adam Curtis’s new documentary HyperNormalisation premiered last fall, the journalist Chris Applegate compiled an Adam Curtis Bingo card.
Read MoreOne way or another, men and women would keep going to classes together, even without being able to study side by side in the library…
One way or another, men and women would keep going to classes together at Harvard, as they had for decades, even without being able to study side by side in the library until 1967.
Read More‘A much less mobile practice that involves complicated paraphernalia’
“How to Murder Your Life” bills itself as a kind of opposite-day how-to, an edgewise complement to the countless books, magazine articles, life-coaching sessions, Facebook support groups, and daily Instagram affirmations that detail the steps to creativity, beauty, smarts, and power.
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I navigate an illness that makes me a protagonist of clichés. Sometimes, the thought of release is a dream of falling through clouds. My friend excitedly speaks about watching the northern lights from the cockpit of a plane — the whole kaleidoscopic spectacle, every inch of that cursive diffusion.
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I will try to clarify, in eight points, why it is important—today—to look at images of destroyed human bodies like those I have used and integrated in different works.
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This afternoon I’m nested in a striped comforter, looking out the window at four snowy oaks. In the foreground, the shrivelled leaves of the hydrangea, mostly buried in drifts. The television screen is static, paused on a scene in the game I honor before every other, Metroid.
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Long ago, when the Universality of a ‘Western Empire’ was both the premise and the purpose of political strategy the West’s identity was born.
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In a 60-page essay I wrote on the nature of a “morbid curiosity,” I struggled not only with the ethics of viewing actualities of death found on shock sites—usually, the premature deaths of non-white victims of car crashes, industrial accidents, drug cartel violence.
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Today because I am sufficiently connected here in my book-glutted home in Boston I have decided to make my little room an everywhere. As it so happens, I am hovering now above an area of greater London known as Mitcham that four-hundred years ago was an outlying village backwater away from the teeming intrigue and bustle of King James’ city and his court.
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A poem by Jennifer L. Knox: against my will/I believed I was/ the train brake, the electric fence
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I navigate an illness that makes me a protagonist of clichés. Sometimes, the thought of release is a dream of falling through clouds. My friend excitedly speaks about watching the northern lights from the cockpit of a plane — the whole kaleidoscopic spectacle, every inch of that cursive diffusion.
Read More
I will try to clarify, in eight points, why it is important—today—to look at images of destroyed human bodies like those I have used and integrated in different works.
Read More
This afternoon I’m nested in a striped comforter, looking out the window at four snowy oaks. In the foreground, the shrivelled leaves of the hydrangea, mostly buried in drifts. The television screen is static, paused on a scene in the game I honor before every other, Metroid.
Read More
Long ago, when the Universality of a ‘Western Empire’ was both the premise and the purpose of political strategy the West’s identity was born.
Read More
In a 60-page essay I wrote on the nature of a “morbid curiosity,” I struggled not only with the ethics of viewing actualities of death found on shock sites—usually, the premature deaths of non-white victims of car crashes, industrial accidents, drug cartel violence.
Read More
Today because I am sufficiently connected here in my book-glutted home in Boston I have decided to make my little room an everywhere. As it so happens, I am hovering now above an area of greater London known as Mitcham that four-hundred years ago was an outlying village backwater away from the teeming intrigue and bustle of King James’ city and his court.
Read More
A poem by Jennifer L. Knox: against my will/I believed I was/ the train brake, the electric fence
Read More