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Rosanna Mclaughlin
Rosanna Mclaughlin is an editor at The White Review.

Articles Available Online


The Pious and the Pommery

Essay

Issue No. 18

Rosanna Mclaughlin

Essay

Issue No. 18

I.   Where is the champagne? On second thoughts this is not entirely the right question. The champagne is in the ice trough, on...

Essay

April 2019

Ariana and the Lesbian Narcissus

Rosanna Mclaughlin

Essay

April 2019

‘Avoid me not!’ ‘Avoid me not!’                                   Narcissus   Let me describe a GIF I’ve been watching. A lot....

  For Aljoscha   ST LAWRENCE SEAWAY   Under my finger the map, this quiet pale blue of the cold estuary, the countless small elevations of the islands, white and pale green, they rub against my fingertip, press into the grooves and rings of the impinging skin Under the fingernail and pressed deep into the nail bed the black earth of this godforsaken strip of Middle Europe, far from any sea, any estuary, with a view to the horizon in the west and in the east to the bench by the yard gate, where Auntolga awaits the evening, I see her through the sparse branches of the young cherry tree in front of my house, she sits in the light of the late afternoon and scrapes the ground with her black laced shoes until her friends come and sit down beside her, sit there until dusk like old ravens   Auntolga scrapes with her feet and nods and nods with her raven’s head, we call out something in Serb to each other When she talks in Hungarian to her raven friends, I hardly understand a word, yet once a word flew from their beaks onto my table – Mississauga No doubt, the word had become Mississauga on its flight between Olga’s bench and the table in my room and had sounded quite different at the beginning of its trajectory, but now it was Mississauga, as on the freeway signs in the dazzling early summer light in Ontario, a quarter, a third, half of a lifetime ago? Almost still a child I found myself, together with my son of a few weeks, in a big American sedan The woman in whose house I was going to live had picked me up at the airport, she spoke a language I could not quite make out, later I understood that in her mouth a German dialect unfamiliar to me and English were engaged in an unceasing struggle, now paralysing, then again racing into each other, only occasionally, whether out of inattention or a generous mood, permitting a recognisable word in one or other language, such as

Contributor

July 2016

Rosanna Mclaughlin

Contributor

July 2016

Rosanna Mclaughlin is an editor at The White Review.

Ten Years at Garage Moscow

Art Review

November 2018

Rosanna Mclaughlin

Art Review

November 2018

When I arrive in Moscow, I am picked up from the airport by Roman, a patriotic taxi driver sent to collect me courtesy of...
Becoming Alice Neel

Art

August 2017

Rosanna Mclaughlin

Art

August 2017

From the first time I saw Alice Neel’s portraits, I wanted to see the world as she did. Neel was the Matisse of the...

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poetry

Issue No. 8

The Cloud of Knowing

John Ashbery

poetry

Issue No. 8

There are those who would have paid that. The amount your eyes bonded with (O spangled home) will have...

Interview

September 2015

Interview with Katrina Palmer

Jamie Sutcliffe

Interview

September 2015

G.W.F. Hegel isn’t looking too good. With an afternoon of student tutorials to attend at the School of Sculpture...

feature

January 2014

Afterword: The Death of the Translator

George Szirtes

feature

January 2014

1. The translator meets himself emerging from his lover’s bedroom. So much for fidelity, he thinks. 2. Je est...

 

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