That is writing: grasping something, then letting it go. Watching something materialize then fade away.
That is writing: grasping something, then letting it go. Watching something materialize then fade away.
It is this that moves me: the inner world painted on top of the outer. Images true to both the visual and emotional reality of life. Accepting both, not either-or. The dreamed-of and the lived. The poetic and the mundane.
It is this that moves me: the inner world painted on top of the outer. Images true to both the visual and emotional reality of life. Accepting both, not either-or. The dreamed-of and the lived. The poetic and the mundane.
At the precipice of the end of the world, we are desperate for a perfect hero, desperate for someone trustworthy and honest and noble, desperate for the character of the wise, passionate, communicative scientist we met in grade school. But in our times there are no earthly gods: they grow old, sign brand deals, become angry, tired, self-certain, and vague.
At the precipice of the end of the world, we are desperate for a perfect hero, desperate for someone trustworthy and honest and noble, desperate for the character of the wise, passionate, communicative scientist we met in grade school. But in our times there are no earthly gods: they grow old, sign brand deals, become angry, tired, self-certain, and vague.
After I learned of Takahashi’s death, memories emerged in me like the voices touched to life in ancient relics.
After I learned of Takahashi’s death, memories emerged in me like the voices touched to life in ancient relics.
We do not have what the others have: this is why we imagine and read.
We do not have what the others have: this is why we imagine and read.
You do not need textbooks or magnifying glasses to appreciate this art: gaze on it and you will feel and believe.
You do not need textbooks or magnifying glasses to appreciate this art: gaze on it and you will feel and believe.
He dreamt of passing others in masks, not able to read their eyes, people hidden behind large face shields and gloves, making it through the loneliness, confronting themselves in a world slowed to silence, like how it always was before people barged in with their ruckus and their weapons, with their egomania and their rage, with their inconsolable sorrow.
He dreamt of passing others in masks, not able to read their eyes, people hidden behind large face shields and gloves, making it through the loneliness, confronting themselves in a world slowed to silence, like how it always was before people barged in with their ruckus and their weapons, with their egomania and their rage, with their inconsolable sorrow.
Like a sherpa, Tokarczuk guides us faithfully to the heights of imagination, where the seen and unseen commingle, where words suffuse the sky and ground like mist, and where we labor, tire, wonder, gain strength, shiver in frost and warm our hands by fire, glimpse apparitions, discover our species fossilized in ice, journey to the sky, and marvel at the beauty and mystery of life in that delicate, rarefied air.
Like a sherpa, Tokarczuk guides us faithfully to the heights of imagination, where the seen and unseen commingle, where words suffuse the sky and ground like mist, and where we labor, tire, wonder, gain strength, shiver in frost and warm our hands by fire, glimpse apparitions, discover our species fossilized in ice, journey to the sky, and marvel at the beauty and mystery of life in that delicate, rarefied air.
But can the genuine penetrate the TikTok voice? Can we find beauty or peace in washed out filters? Can we be healed by the tools that induce our pain?
But can the genuine penetrate the TikTok voice? Can we find beauty or peace in washed out filters? Can we be healed by the tools that induce our pain?
My generation grew up in the 1990s and 2000s learning the story of civilian death. Mass shootings remained behind the TV screen, uncanny horrors that seemed too distant to be human. In school, we would huddle in dark corners in preparation for death.
My generation grew up in the 1990s and 2000s learning the story of civilian death. Mass shootings remained behind the TV screen, uncanny horrors that seemed too distant to be human. In school, we would huddle in dark corners in preparation for death.
Every night for two and a half months, Novak Djokovic woke to sirens and fled to his grandfather’s basement as bombs fell on Belgrade. He was an anonymous child in a country without global legends. One night his father placed ten Deutschmarks on the table: this was all they had.
Every night for two and a half months, Novak Djokovic woke to sirens and fled to his grandfather’s basement as bombs fell on Belgrade. He was an anonymous child in a country without global legends. One night his father placed ten Deutschmarks on the table: this was all they had.
The pursuit of tennis eternity is great. But so is the cost of greatness: the determined, sacrificial, maniacal pursuit of records, adoration and fame.
The pursuit of tennis eternity is great. But so is the cost of greatness: the determined, sacrificial, maniacal pursuit of records, adoration and fame.
This quality could be described as warmth, but I will call it inclusivity: Zambra’s novels will always accept us. They will not be bitter and they will not allow us to writhe in anguish. They will show us the pain of maturation and the pain of relationships, but they will lead us through these passages gently, with humor and compassion.
This quality could be described as warmth, but I will call it inclusivity: Zambra’s novels will always accept us. They will not be bitter and they will not allow us to writhe in anguish. They will show us the pain of maturation and the pain of relationships, but they will lead us through these passages gently, with humor and compassion.
Lying alone in the blue-lit dark I swipe through videos the algorithm feeds me of people crying at their phone cameras in their cars, the young monologuing about lost hope, viral psychologists lecturing on trauma, the fit juxtaposing morose selfies with photos of their biceps and glutes bulging like hot air balloons, the cosmic casting spells and affirmations to “manifest an ex,” and anonymous 20-year-old women in my city documenting how they cooked oatmeal, went to the gym, organized their cabinets, called old friends, read a book, opened journals, outlined their futures, and reflected on themselves — a solitary drama I cannot turn from, a quiet triumph in the pained carnival of our digital, contemporary world.
Lying alone in the blue-lit dark I swipe through videos the algorithm feeds me of people crying at their phone cameras in their cars, the young monologuing about lost hope, viral psychologists lecturing on trauma, the fit juxtaposing morose selfies with photos of their biceps and glutes bulging like hot air balloons, the cosmic casting spells and affirmations to “manifest an ex,” and anonymous 20-year-old women in my city documenting how they cooked oatmeal, went to the gym, organized their cabinets, called old friends, read a book, opened journals, outlined their futures, and reflected on themselves — a solitary drama I cannot turn from, a quiet triumph in the pained carnival of our digital, contemporary world.
Tokarczuk is the author of the present, the author of now. Press your fingers to her pages; press your face right up to the ink. You will feel the heartbeat of her prose, the steady suspiration of our times.
Tokarczuk is the author of the present, the author of now. Press your fingers to her pages; press your face right up to the ink. You will feel the heartbeat of her prose, the steady suspiration of our times.
If there were a guide for every reader, mine would include notes on being called the wrong name. The reader’s guide to my life would be a guide to being misread, a guide to growing up mispronounced
If there were a guide for every reader, mine would include notes on being called the wrong name. The reader’s guide to my life would be a guide to being misread, a guide to growing up mispronounced
A vision at dawn, the light slightly rousing the streets, everything mauve and gray rising over the unnetted and vacated tennis courts, against the deep blue of the backboard: two genderless figures in tights, shrouded in half-light, standing en pointe with their limbs set at perfect curves, slowly turning on fixed toes like ballerinas in the music boxes of youth.
A vision at dawn, the light slightly rousing the streets, everything mauve and gray rising over the unnetted and vacated tennis courts, against the deep blue of the backboard: two genderless figures in tights, shrouded in half-light, standing en pointe with their limbs set at perfect curves, slowly turning on fixed toes like ballerinas in the music boxes of youth.
Breece D’J Pancake is a ghost: his work circles the voids of communication and the uncanny: he occupies the memories and dreams of those he loved, with his writing, reissued every few years, always returning from the fringes of being forgotten.
Breece D’J Pancake is a ghost: his work circles the voids of communication and the uncanny: he occupies the memories and dreams of those he loved, with his writing, reissued every few years, always returning from the fringes of being forgotten.
She taught him the short-angle crosscourt backhand; when she played Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, goosebumps rose all over his body.
She taught him the short-angle crosscourt backhand; when she played Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, goosebumps rose all over his body.
Why did we love those fantastical drawings, and why did it hurt when I lost them to hot water? What did Takahashi know about us that nobody else did?
Why did we love those fantastical drawings, and why did it hurt when I lost them to hot water? What did Takahashi know about us that nobody else did?
Now he is a ghost, a shadow of the living, and to conjure a ghost we must speak and we must remember, we must will, will, will that person back into existence, before the murder and the obit’s line, back into time.
Now he is a ghost, a shadow of the living, and to conjure a ghost we must speak and we must remember, we must will, will, will that person back into existence, before the murder and the obit’s line, back into time.
But, and, perhaps— this is not the Realist novelist’s wind-up toy, but narrative in perpetuity, always in medias res. The right technique for our times, as we live in medias res (do we not?) of a catastrophe that our forebears initiated and that we precipitate with our plastic bottles, our car rides, our eating, our vacations and weekend trips, our charging of laptops and cell phones, our cryptocurrencies and NFTs, our two-day shipping, our corporations, our diets, our hobbies.
But, and, perhaps— this is not the Realist novelist’s wind-up toy, but narrative in perpetuity, always in medias res. The right technique for our times, as we live in medias res (do we not?) of a catastrophe that our forebears initiated and that we precipitate with our plastic bottles, our car rides, our eating, our vacations and weekend trips, our charging of laptops and cell phones, our cryptocurrencies and NFTs, our two-day shipping, our corporations, our diets, our hobbies.
we could be more like her, more intense, more ethical, more aware of our responsibility to this earth. These are tips for graduate students from a present future punished by extreme weather, depleted coastlines, the loss of species, and mass climate migrations. Maybe
we could be more like her, more intense, more ethical, more aware of our responsibility to this earth. These are tips for graduate students from a present future punished by extreme weather, depleted coastlines, the loss of species, and mass climate migrations. Maybe
They show how books inspire us to feeling and thought, and how books thrive in our imaginations like natural organisms, growing in head-gardens alongside daydreams, songs, advertisements, conversations with neighbors, memories of others, movies and TV shows, and our mothers’ aphorisms. Grow, grow, see how they grow
They show how books inspire us to feeling and thought, and how books thrive in our imaginations like natural organisms, growing in head-gardens alongside daydreams, songs, advertisements, conversations with neighbors, memories of others, movies and TV shows, and our mothers’ aphorisms. Grow, grow, see how they grow