It is a cliché to say that a writer’s work resists classification. It is ironic then that China Miéville,...

I. You remember your childhood. Your tow-headed, reddish-tinged mother, who yelled after you all day like a Paraguayan peasant...

Dripping excitedly from my earlobes And falling over my crowded routines A rain of Lucretius’ atoms Is just beginning...