Who knows, maybe one day there will no longer be Literature. Instead there will be literary web sites. Like those stars, still shining but long dead, the web sites will testify to the existence of past writers. There will be quotes, fragments of texts, which prove that there used to

Another kind of madness, constantly wanting to draw attention to one’s own insights, like some placard-carrying apocalyptic in Time’s Square. — Damian Lanigan, The Ghost Variations, Weatherglass Books, 2022, opened at random, p. 69 I’m writing a long note about cinematic time but, as always, encountered something along

Si pour un fois de nouveau le regard bleu dans le sac rempli de poussière–je parle de moi, j’ai le droit–cette attente, cette patience–si pour une fois de nouveau–qui me comprend?–je pale des jouets brisés, je parle d’un sac noir, je parle d’

All real crisis is deferred by a permanent state of emergency, a million tiny insecurities and instabilities that send us flying to our nearest seat of power, unaware that the very “return to normal” we beg for is only the reproduction of the crisis, its more astute management. Our constant

I picked up today Édouard Louis’s book with this title. I added a question mark. Then removed it. Because without a question mark it is a statement. I couldn’t see it at first. It doesn’t ask who killed my father. Rather it states who did it. I

Hay que hundir las palabras en la realidad hasta hacerlas delirar como ella. You have to bury the words in reality, make them hallucinate the way reality does. - José Galván epigraph to Relations, poems 1971-1973, Buenos Aires, by Juan Gelman, translated by Joan Lindgren CONFIDENCES he sits down at