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Orlando Reade

Orlando Reade is writing a Ph.D. on English poetry and cosmology in the seventeenth century. His interview with Lynette Yiadom-Boakye can be read in The White Review No. 13.



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Wildness of the Day

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December 2016

Orlando Reade

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December 2016

One day in late 2011, waiting outside Green Park station, my gaze was drawn to an unexpected sight. Earlier that year a canopy of...

Interview

Issue No. 13

Lynette Yiadom-Boakye

Orlando Reade

Interview

Issue No. 13

Modern philosophy is threatened by love, whose objects are never only objects. Philosophers have discovered in love a lived...

I had been sent back from the city in disgrace, back to my parents’ house in the country It was a traumatic experience Though not as traumatic as what had preceded it   My parents’ house was a squat, sprawling thing painted light pink Elaborate grounds sank into the landscape around it In the garden, a turquoise pool was sludged with leaves and dirt which my father hoovered every other day I listened to the sound of it from my old room on the top floor, spread-eagled on the bed with the white crochet covers, where I thought about P and wept I had been allowed just one small keepsake, and only that after I had really pushed for it A passport photo of his sallow moon face His brows knitted over his eyes He was still the most beautiful man I had ever seen in my life, six foot five and silent as a column I wondered what would happen to him now And yet I already knew – he had become infatuated with someone else She was his childhood sweetheart, invited over to the house by his mother when he had gone back to visit I had not been allowed to visit with him The other girl’s hands, what had been done to them, looked expensive He had shown me photos of her as if to say: look, give up all your hope Which at least saved me the trouble of rooting around in a debased manner to find the pictures myself He was kind like that   P had been the one to ring my parents too Soon they arrived in their roaring car, big enough to seat six My mother cried, and my father wore sunglasses but I’m sure his eyes were watering too, with the shame I told them once I was sat in the car that I could have taken the train, that I wasn’t a fan of all this fuss either I could have packed up my suitcase and come back quietly  But my mother would not think of it   –   My mother implied that when

Contributor

August 2014

Orlando Reade

Contributor

August 2014

Orlando Reade is writing a Ph.D. on English poetry and cosmology in the seventeenth century. His interview with Lynette...

Life outside the Manet Paradise Resort : On the paintings of Lynette Yiadom-Boakye

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November 2012

Orlando Reade

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November 2012

*   A person is represented, sitting in what appears to be the banal and conventional pose of a high street studio portrait photographer:...

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Prize Entry

April 2017

Abu One-Eye

Rav Grewal-Kök

Prize Entry

April 2017

He left two photographs.   In the first, his eldest brother balances him on a knee. It must be...

fiction

April 2014

Chiral

Paul Currion

fiction

April 2014

I cough while the technician tinkers with the projector, although the two are not related, and I wonder why...

fiction

Issue No. 3

Fifteen Flowers

Federico Falco

TR. Janet Hendrickson

fiction

Issue No. 3

To Lilia Lardone Summer was ending. The air already smelled like smoke, but it still looked clear, sunny. The...

 

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