Is a place an object? Is a building? If I cannot go there anymore, have I lost it? Is the experience of loss, in that it is always a losing of some thing, to objectify? If I am lost without it do I become an object myself?
On Jungian shadows, Elena Ferrante, THE BABADOOK, and the sinister side of motherhood.
By Night the Mountain Burns – Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel
It is a melodic text rife with images of hollowed canoes and mist-enveloped mountains.
Was it in fact Warhol who wrote the Great American Novel?
Hemingway once explained: There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. If that is the case, then there was much blood shed in this barn.
Skeleton Costumes – Thomas Moore
As if Rimbaud were on Whatsapp.
The book provides you with the wincing secondhand anxiety of watching someone smart you know hurt themselves, repeatedly.
Technology also acts as a direct vector of memory. There are few feelings stranger than sitting in bed in your underwear, photoshopping a snapshot of your dead grandparents.
Making ourselves, and each other, stronger, will not be achieved by identity politics, because identity politics are concerned with what’s already there, not what could be.
The Spectral Link – Thomas Ligotti
He is a metaphysical mutant in that he is a hodgepodge of clichéd horror motifs and effects, and metaphysical ideas. He’s a rhetorical monster.