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Enrique Vila-Matas
Enrique Vila-Matas was born in Barcelona in 1948. His works include Bartleby & Co, Montano, Never Any End to Paris, The Vertical Journey, winner of the Premio Romulo Gallegos, and Dublinesque, which was shortlisted for the 2013 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. 'February 2008' is an excerpt from his novel Dietario Voluble, published by Anagrama in 2008.

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Writers from the Old Days

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Issue No. 13

Enrique Vila-Matas

TR. J. S. Tennant

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Issue No. 13

Augusto Monterroso wrote that sooner or later the Latin American writer faces three possible fates: exile, imprisonment or burial.   I met Roberto Bolaño...

poetry

January 2015

Litanies of an Audacious Rosary

Enrique Vila-Matas

TR. Rosalind Harvey

poetry

January 2015

FEBRUARY 2008   * I’m outraged, but I’ve learned a way of reasoning that quickly defuses my exasperation. This...

Sam Buchan-Watts’s Path Through Wood, published in October 2021, begins where you would think: in a coppice, where branches tick and greenery fidgets My own debut collection, Rotten Days in Late Summer was published the same year This is an ‘in-conversation’ between the two of us, about our poems, their overlaps and intersections Both are books about adolescent hallucinations, about love, loss and desire, about getting lost in woods and trolleyed in fields They are about seeing lawlessness in the landscape, and a subsequent indoctrination into the ‘laws’ of manhood   The phrase ‘warped pastoral’, coined by Sam, describes the poems’ often shared mise-en-scène It becomes a funhouse mirror reflecting and distorting the state of boyishness in both collections As a half-wild, half-built environment, the warped pastoral also gives cover for – even cultivates – ‘boyishness’ And boyishness is figured in the poems as an interstitial state, not of innocence, but of flux, fluidity, play and possibility, briefly glimpsed in a glade through smoke-haze and thick foliage, just before the trees are all cut down   This conversation took place last winter, in that period of the pandemic when time was becoming unstuck yet remained globulous and sludge-like Appropriately, it unfolded at a slow pace, via email, over a period of months Exchanges of this kind are less like conversations and more like experiments in collaborative criticism It’s an odd genre Each interlocutor has the privilege (or curse) of being able to self-edit as they go The questions and answers are therefore more articulated than they would be in real-time conversation At least, one has more time to formulate and consider a question and response    The slowness of such an exchange also underscores the possibility of attending to your interlocutor to the fullest, if staggered, extent, and to actually listen to your own responses and reflections as they occur and shift It’s not reactionary or quick-fire As such, it reflects something that we discuss about the poet-reader relationship: principles of consideration, care and carefulness within the context of lyric poetry    For me, central to our exchange was the joint admission of poetry’s ‘not-knowing’: the essential difficulty of determining what poetry is and how it can happen: a

Contributor

August 2014

Enrique Vila-Matas

Contributor

August 2014

Enrique Vila-Matas was born in Barcelona in 1948. His works include Bartleby & Co, Montano, Never Any End to...

Leaving Theories Behind

feature

Issue No. 9

Enrique Vila-Matas

feature

Issue No. 9

I. I went to Lyon because an organisation called Villa Fondebrider invited me to give a talk on the relationship between fiction and reality as...

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poetry

Issue No. 14

Interrogations

Rebecca Tamás

poetry

Issue No. 14

INTERROGATION (1)     Are you a witch?   Are you   Have you had relations with the devil?...

Interview

February 2014

Interview with Lisa Dwan

Rosie Clarke

Interview

February 2014

In a city where even the night sky is a dull, starless grey, immersion in absolute darkness is a...

fiction

March 2011

In the Field

Jesse Loncraine

fiction

March 2011

There were flickers of red in the water, a tint the colour of blood. He stood in the river,...

 

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