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Lauren Elkin
Lauren Elkin is most recently the author of No. 91/92: notes on a Parisian commute (Semiotext(e)/Fugitives) and the UK translator of Simone de Beauvoir's previously unpublished novel, The Inseparables (Vintage). Her previous book Flâneuse: Women Walk the City (Chatto/FSG) was a finalist for the PEN/Diamonstein-Spielvogel Award for the Art of the Essay, a New York Times Notable Book of 2017, and a BBC Radio 4 Book of the Week. Her essays have appeared in Granta, the London Review of Books, Harper’s, the New York Times, and Frieze, among others. Her next book, Art Monsters, will be out in July 2023 (Chatto/FSG). She lives in London.

Articles Available Online


Maria Gainza’s ‘Optic Nerve’

Book Review

May 2019

Lauren Elkin

Book Review

May 2019

In his foreword to A Thousand Plateaus, on the pleasures of philosophy, and of Deleuze and Guattari’s philosophy in particular, Brian Massumi writes:  ...

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Issue No. 8

Barking From the Margins: On écriture féminine

Lauren Elkin

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Issue No. 8

 I. Two moments in May May 2, 2011. The novelists Siri Hustvedt and Céline Curiol are giving a talk...

Standing on the doorstep of Will Self’s London home ahead of this interview, last August, I was quite terrified I had spent the previous ten days immersed in his hallucinatory fictional worlds, composed of seven novels, three novellas and countless short stories   Through these parallel and often overlapping fictions, Self has constructed a relentless critique of our institutional failings, hypocritical cultural mores and political inadequacies My fears, notwithstanding being intellectually dwarfed, were largely to do with the bridled madness of many of his writings Here was the writer who, over the years, had invented:   a man who wakes up with a vagina behind his left knee and has an affair with his (male) GP (Bull: A Farce); a parallel Earth, populated by hypersexual and exhibitionist apes, seen through the eyes of its most prominent experimental psychiatrists (Great Apes); the afterlife taking place in the purgatorial London district of ‘Dulston’, a suburb populated uniquely by senseless, chain-smoking dead people, haunted by their aborted foetuses and old neuroses, and living out the rest of infinity in dire office jobs (How the Dead Live); a post-apocalyptic London governed by a religion based on a cab driver named Dave’s rage-filled writings to his estranged son in the 2000s (The Book of Dave) And then there was the public figure – an acerbic satirist of towering intellect, a giant man of letters with famously little tolerance for fools By the time I rang on the doorbell, Will Self had, to my mind, transmogrified into The Fat Controller – the Mephistophelian anti-hero in My Idea of Fun – ready to tear me limb from limb for my idiotic questions and inadequate readings   My fears were unwarranted, of course Upon arrival, he made me a cup of tea and ushered me past Manglorian – a yap-happy Jack Russell – up the stairs into a study filled top to bottom with books, hundreds of post-it notes affixed to the walls in grid formation and a prominently placed photograph of Francis Bacon Languorously smoking a single roll-up in a cigarette holder, my host answered the questions put

Contributor

August 2014

Lauren Elkin

Contributor

August 2014

Lauren Elkin is most recently the author of No. 91/92: notes on a Parisian commute (Semiotext(e)/Fugitives) and the UK...

The End of Francophonie: The Politics of French Literature

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Issue No. 2

Lauren Elkin

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Issue No. 2

I. We were a couple of minutes late for the panel we’d hoped to attend. The doors were closed and there was a surly-looking...

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poetry

April 2012

Jules & moi

Heather Hartley

poetry

April 2012

80% of success is showing up. —Woody Allen   A morning of tiles, park benches & sun, green, un-...

poetry

December 2016

Of all those pasts

Will Harris

poetry

December 2016

  In Derrida’s Memoires: For Paul de Man he quotes from ‘Mnemosyne’, a poem by Friedrich Hölderlin which he...

fiction

September 2011

Celesteville's Burning

Andrew Gallix

fiction

September 2011

            Zut, zut, zut, zut.             – Marcel Proust, A la recherche du temps...

 

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