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Rose McLaren

Rose McLaren is an artist in London.



Articles Available Online


Talk Into My Bullet Hole

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July 2015

Rose McLaren

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July 2015

‘Someday people are going to read about you in a story or a poem. Will you describe yourself for those people?’ ‘Oh, I don’t...

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May 2014

Art Does Not Know a Beyond: On Karl Ove Knausgaard

Rose McLaren

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May 2014

Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle has an oddly medieval form: a cycle, composed of six auto-biographical books about the...

At the Konditorei   Close, warm, and humming with the relaxed sounds of post- midday Kaffee-Kuchen The  cakes are modestly presented in a glass cabinet: stripes of sponge alternate with chocolate cream; globes of mango gleam on mousse Oblongs of raspberry and banana jelly Older couples sit at round tables, sip kaffee and lift cake-cream inch-by-inch to mouths They’re conscious not to eat too quickly, so as to avoid nausea, and ensure instead continued pure delight A little nothing, pleasant chat; a few read the papers   Our protagonist has the table by the window, hung with a doily curtain There’s a cigarette smoking itself out in his thrown- away left hand; his closed right one rests on the open pages of an empty notepad                             See (1)   Florian was walking with his schnauzer, Bernie, along the far shore of the See He preferred this less trodden, further side because it meant he had a good view of the town, busy and self-important on that nearer side And he liked being closer to the great faces of mountains, which jacked themselves right up hard, grey and granular, above all the people’s things and houses   His head was clear and only had in it air, Bernie running and her fetching the next stick, and the soft-firm earth and grass under their feet   They stopped on the path to look over the See Its surface was soft as a lady’s undergarment You could place your finger in its surface and feel it drop under, without resistance Today’s winter water had black, mirrored surfaces; nothing could be seen beneath them   Then Florian’s eye settles on something, as a fisherman focuses on the red point at the end of his line in the water His eyes are drawing an outline – round the objects he can see They are – this shape – like this – two rectangles bobbing among some dead black stalks The black of the rectangles is greyer than the See’s black Their sheen is harder than the water’s; more moulded, less easy to penetrate                                 At the Pension   The protagonist arrives at the pension This is situated in the village adjoining the town, where slopes are levelled in tiers to make space for the houses There are broad,

Contributor

August 2014

Rose McLaren

Contributor

August 2014

Rose McLaren is an artist in London.

The Prosaic Sublime of Béla Tarr

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Issue No. 6

Rose McLaren

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Issue No. 6

I have to recognise it’s cosmical; the shit is cosmical. It’s not just social, it’s not just ontological, it’s really huge. And that’s why we...
Stalker, Writer or Professor? Geoff Dyer's Zona and Genre

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February 2012

Rose McLaren

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February 2012

‘So what kind of a writer am I, reduced to writing a summary of a film?’ wonders Geoff Dyer half way through Zona. Such...

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Prize Entry

April 2017

Remain

Ed Lately

Prize Entry

April 2017

The apology had been the most charged and contested gesture between us, the common element in arguments whose subjects...

poetry

February 2015

In bed with the radio

Péter Závada

TR. Mark Baczoni

poetry

February 2015

IN BED WITH THE RADIO   You’d turned against me. There’s safety in knowing, I thought. Like lying in...

Prize Entry

April 2017

The Critic of Tombs

Ethan Davison

Prize Entry

April 2017

Emilia came to Tombs [1] in the twelfth year of the interregnum. It was the first time in history...

 

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