I came to Russian poetry late in life. I had already read the novels—Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, Bulgakov and Turgenev—and the stories of Chekov, Gorky and Gogol Then, as a third year student in college, I spent an entire semester struggling to read Pushkin’s great verse novel, Eugene Onegin in Russian. When starting to read Russian…
Under these red sheets, I bury my morning dreams The clay of the sky is raw shaped by fingers that hesitated to smooth the creases out of intentions, prevaricated allowed to harden, flawed left to permanence, endowed with the attributes of being just wrong these tiles are poised to fall These doors that lead to […]
In this week’s Dispatches from The Secret Library, Dr Oliver Tearle investigates the fascinating facts behind some of the greatest detective novels The rise of detective fiction is a fascinating topic (previously, I’ve chosen 10 of the greatest examples of the genre), and it’s no surprise that a book telling the story of classic crime […]
Don’t you just hate it when you don’t speak the language? I know. More than two years in, I ought to have mastered a little bit of French for those trips to Geneva. But I haven’t, other than a few extra odd words. That’s a few extra words, not especially odd ones. I did join […]
By Arielle Iniko Newton Like everyone on my timeline, I watched the video of Keaton Jones crying on camera after having been bullied in school. But unlike everyone on my timeline, I was immediately suspicious, not empathetic. That’s because in my Love and trust of Blackness, I am limited in my ability to provide emotional…
I guess the phrase to use for such a post is ‘delightfully harsh.’ Open to other suggestions! Please like this post! It’s (at the moment) delightfully harsh!
I can’t blame you, if I’m in love with the taste of being wasted. The utterly balanced delicate bite of the bitterness inside, with the rising bile, being shattered and glorious just comes naturally- it’s my style, I suppose, to be gasping, and blue, and asphyxiating on words I dare not tell you. Claw at my eyes and feel my throat wrench, as I force myself to swallow, as my stomach clenches. Rug burn, heartburn, cigarette burns, consterning, do the stars leave holes behind in the sky where they’re burning? Or maybe, that’s the price you have to pay, to be a thing of beauty, you have to blaze away.
And there you have it. That’s what we are. You are beauty, I am the destruction, and we are just as beautiful together, at a distance, as the stars.
Hi guys. I seem to return only to apologize, but…
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The end of summer.
Chilly yet refreshing to the face.
Outside with a bicycle,
and a lonely road.
Riding the wind,
while it paints my cheek red.
they lie on the road.
While I leave, they stay
colouring the ground.
When I’ll come back, they’ll be gone.
All things return home someday.