I spent 2017 researching a novel partially set in a prison’s solitary confinement wing. I have been fortunate enough to never have experienced solitary myself, which is not to be taken for granted if you lived in Iran and were involved in politics.
When Dolours and Marian began their hunger strike, they each faced a life sentence, alongside six other (all male) I.R.A. members, for the two car bombs that exploded in front of the Old Bailey Courthouse and the Ministry of Agriculture in London on March
“Why,” asks the girl at the gift shop register, echoing the question I’ve been asking myself on and off for the last week, “would anyone come here on vacation?”
“I’d had enough of the music scene, all that psychedelic shit and white honky monody.”
Cinema has always been a symbolic bulwark against death, but today, with national economies built on precarity and instant obsolescence, onscreen eternity is more desirable than ever.
I tie linen serviettes around my neck, a streamer, all colors: the plummed point of an artichoke leaf, Cinderella pumpkin orange, gold and cream like an ear of corn.
It was just four years before he accidentally dispatched himself from planet Earth with a suicidally reckless cocktail of Valium and vodka that Thomas Kinkade celebrated the release of his Hallmark Channel-esque biopic, Thomas Kinkade’s Christmas Cottage.
Women suffer twice as hard here. In France it’s highly common, even acceptable, to loathe mature women. You certainly don’t want to hire them.
Don’t read this essay. Print it. Seal it. Bury it in the cold ground for a hundred years. Leave it for somebody else to read a hundred years from now.
When I was growing up, my grandfather always wore an American flag pin on his red baseball cap.