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David Isaacs
David Isaacs has recently completed a PhD about the ethics of rewriting at UCL. He is coming to the end of a first novel and is at the early stages of a new project about the present tense.


Articles Available Online


Interview with Namwali Serpell

Interview

December 2020

David Isaacs

Interview

December 2020

Namwali Serpell is a rarity: an academic and novelist whose criticism is as vital as her fiction. Since we first spoke, in September 2020,...

Book Review

June 2018

Christine Schutt’s ‘Pure Hollywood’

David Isaacs

Book Review

June 2018

There is a certain kind of American novelist of the late twentieth century whose fiction fetishises plant names. The...

Jesmyn Ward’s third novel returns to the same setting that served her so well in both her debut Where the Line Bleeds (2008) and the National Book Award-winning Salvage the Bones (2011): the fictional rural town of Bois Sauvage on the Mississippi Gulf Coast It’s the kind of place that worms its way into a person’s being; thirteen-year-old Jojo, one of the novel’s three narrators, is described by another as ‘carry[ing] the scent of leaves disintegrating to mud at the bottom of a river, the aroma of the bowl of the bayou, heavy with water and sediment and the skeletons of small dead creatures, crab, fish, snakes, and shrimp’ It’s also the kind of place that eats away at its inhabitants’ souls, rife with poverty, a meth epidemic, and racism ‘This ain’t the old days,’ shouts a white father at his eighteen-year-old son, slapping him across the face and calling him a ‘fucking idiot’  for shooting one of his black schoolmates when the latter wins a bet The dead teenager – a high school football star and a crack shot with a bow and arrow (he bet his murderer that he could use this to take down a buck before the rifle-toting white boy could) – was Given, brother of Leonie (the second of the narrators) and uncle to her son Jojo, or he would have been if he’d lived long enough to meet his nephew   Sing, Unburied, Sing – the winner of the 2017 National Book Award for fiction – opens on Jojo’s thirteenth birthday Eager to prove himself a man, he’s helping his grandfather, Pop, to slaughter a goat: ‘I want Pop to know I can get bloody’ Given all we know about the perilous situation for young black men in America, it’s impossible to read this opening scene without a tremor of fear There by the Grace of God goes Jojo So many others before him cut down in their prime: his uncle Given, of course, and Ritchie, a young man who was in Parchman Farm, the Mississippi State Penitentiary, with Jojo’s grandfather back in the day Ward has addressed

Contributor

August 2014

David Isaacs

Contributor

August 2014

David Isaacs has recently completed a PhD about the ethics of rewriting at UCL. He is coming to the end...

Prize Entry

April 2017

Pylons

David Isaacs

Prize Entry

April 2017

Once upon a time, Dad would begin, I think, focusing on the road, there was a man called Watt....

Seasickness

Prize Entry

April 2016

David Isaacs

Prize Entry

April 2016

‘How would you begin?’   She puts a finger to her lips, a little wrinkled still from the water, and hesitates. She says, ‘Maybe:...
How things are falling.

Prize Entry

April 2015

David Isaacs

Prize Entry

April 2015

i.   Oyster cards were first issued to members of the British public in July 2003; by June 2015 they will have been replaced...
by Accident

fiction

April 2014

David Isaacs

fiction

April 2014

[To be read aloud]   I want to begin – and I hope I don’t come across as autistic or anything like that (and...

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feature

Issue No. 7

On a Decline in British Fiction

Jennifer Hodgson

Patricia Waugh

feature

Issue No. 7

‘The special fate of the novel,’ Frank Kermode has written, ‘is always to be dying.’ In Britain, the terminal...

poetry

March 2013

The Humming Lady

James Byrne

poetry

March 2013

The humming lady arrives in a smiling orange smock and orders from the waiter a plate of overripe oranges,...

poetry

November 2011

Cooper's Hawk

Elyse Fenton

poetry

November 2011

My breath’s the wind’s breathless down-stroke hasty claw like the gnarred finger of juniper just now clambering for a...

 

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