The movies we consume, that become “the great movies” of whatever canon we subscribe to, are little more than stand-ins for all the unmade movies we never get to see. Illiterate fantasies projected onto the mind’s eye, horror scripts hidden in the cracks of prison walls, indie classics composed by solipsistic minds, confidently plotted out scene by scene and stored safely in memory palaces.
Natural disaster, economic and social collapse, the crumbling of the federal system, and in the middle of this post-U.S.A. landscape, a lone hero in a journey of redemption. Land of Hunger, starring Jim Hawkes in the lead role of Frank, was critically acclaimed upon its release.
The construction of the Self is historically situated and is a conscious re-creation of what Nietzsche calls our “second nature” making us “poets of our lives”. The focal point of The Man From Earth is John Oldman, a university professor who claims to be 14,000 years old and has stopped ageing after 35. He has met the Buddha, sailed with Christopher Columbus and been a dear friend of Van Gogh. How is such a Self constructed?
Atlantic Winds, a debut novella by William Prendiville, is a sharp and suspenseful examination of the small-town mentality and the devastating effects that gossip and harassment can have on a person’s life.
Nayeri blends memoir and reportage in beautiful, powerful prose, intertwining her own memories of fleeing Iran as a child with the more recent narratives gathered from other refugees. Timely and empathetic, The Ungrateful Refugee will force many readers to confront and re-evaluate their assumptions – even (or especially) those arising from good intentions.
Marsman’s The Following Scan Will Last Five Minutes, translated from the Dutch by Sophie Collins, is a poetry and prose collection on the writer’s experience with cancer. She evokes the writings of Audre Lorde and Susan Sontag and strikes a balance in her own writing between the personal honesty of Lorde and the social considerations of Sontag.
Today there is cauliflower for dinner, washed and cut, white florets of boredom. Cauliflower was relief till it became an imposition. First grandmother and then mother-in-law told me how to cook it, as if the success of my marriage rested on the cauliflower.
I’ve been in bed for maybe an hour, asleep for just a few minutes I think. And then the scream. My stomach muscles tighten. It feels as though a short sharp blade has been inserted. I freeze but only for a couple of seconds. I need to move.
It was the summer of 1972. We had been in the habit of heading to the mountains for our summer holidays, but the Olympics were on, and half the world was going to Bavaria. So instead, Dad had decided to visit the relatives in the Zone.