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Kate Zambreno
Kate Zambreno is the author most recently of Drifts (Riverhead) and To Write As If Already Dead, a study of Hervé Guibert (Columbia University Press). Forthcoming in Summer 2023 from Riverhead is The Light Room, a meditation on art and care, as well as Tone, a collaboration with Sofia Samatar, from Columbia University Press in early 2024. ‘Insekt’ is part of an in-progress work of fiction, Realisms. She is a 2021 Guggenheim Fellow.

Articles Available Online


Insekt or large verminous thing

Fiction

September 2022

Kate Zambreno

Fiction

September 2022

Around dusk one evening in March, I went out back to the small garage, and switched on my small square of artificial light at...

Feature

January 2018

Accumulations (Appendix F)

Kate Zambreno

Feature

January 2018

I’ve been keeping a mental list of all the pieces of art that I’ve nursed Leo in front of...

there is no meaning Hanging a picture on the wall I           give           a little too much force to my thumb skin breaks under pressure an orb of blood      red        red to dark red       to dry red       to skin       to iron       to rust      to heat        to sweat        to yesterdays as we move, we move Tuesday Going into the city with the rest of them sliding down the greased pole of means become ends Let me tell you I slipped and travelled against the sharp grain of escalator, one flight of metal before I hit flat floor and crack, to the back of my head I cried like a child oh I oh I said me        am in pain   I was at work by the afternoon At home by early evening feeling burning scratches on the backs of my legs and the bruised curve of my head My mind curved bruised   In bed, the sheets scraped and tugged me sore any way I tried to lie I     face down, looking for a cool place, stretched out an arm and all that was solid dematerialised I     a nothing slipped into water Water, as pressure I felt the water as pressure I’d always thought of pressure as a pushing down     oh      it was every drop of water for miles working into me There was nothing to my fingers, no weight, no force on the pads of my feet, no cold draught wafting past the hairs of my skin, no sound, no sight I couldn’t set my watch to nothing   I waited I couldn’t scream, unaware of mouth or lungs to do so not breathing, not dead, not alive No fear Not yet Eyes wide open into dark, and no sense Unsayable   The Friday, I dropped in on Uncle Padana It was early summer: shadows fold neatly round corners, light warms the backs of the hands until four and cools before six He answered the phone in a lady voice as I stood outside his consulting room door, then buzzed me in, He’s ready for you now He was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, looking boyish, expectant, tired A Ceropegia hung from the bookshelf and fondled

Contributor

August 2014

Kate Zambreno

Contributor

August 2014

Kate Zambreno is the author most recently of Drifts (Riverhead) and To Write As If Already Dead, a study...

Heroines

feature

March 2013

Kate Zambreno

feature

March 2013

I am beginning to realise that taking the self out of our essays is a form of repression. Taking the self out feels like...

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feature

September 2014

Paris at Night

Matthew Beaumont

feature

September 2014

The picturesque lightshow that, once the sun has set, takes place on the hour, every hour, when the Eiffel...

feature

Issue No. 7

Bracketing the World: Reading Poetry through Neuroscience

James Wilkes

feature

Issue No. 7

The anechoic chamber at University College London has the clutter of a space shared by many people: styrofoam cups,...

Art

October 2014

For the Motherboard

Vanessa Hodgkinson

James Bridle

Art

October 2014

Please click on the links below to download, print and assemble (instructions in slideshow above) Vanessa Hodgkinson’s For the Motherboard:...

 

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