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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...

The Rabbis   As the purple light of evening descended, women sang blessings over silver candelabra, and a group of rabbis gathered in the shul to discuss the story of Abraham and Isaac One rabbi, who owned only a single shirt with a blackened collar, began a commentary: As Abraham led Isaac up to Mt Moriah for the sacrifice, the rabbi contended, the two of them suddenly heard a sound Neither could identify the sound or its source, if it were high or low, soft or shrill, coming from beneath the ground, or up in the sky Isaac asked his father, What is this sound? And Abraham replied, That is the sound of God’s justice unfolding across the earth Lo, the Lord himself infuses it with His blessing as he sits beneath a pomegranate tree Isaac disagreed, but kept silent Later, the rabbi continued, he spoke of his own interpretation of the sound, founded on an alternative view of God’s judgment as the proliferation of chaos, as an animal howl, as a disturbance beneath the street, and as the grinding of the spheres, rattling past on unequal tracks And in fact, as Rabbi Mendel of Kotzk suggested, the rabbi continued, it is not the Lord, but the mortal King Saul, Israel’s first king, who sits beneath the pomegranate tree, weeping into his hands for the kingdom he ruled so briefly and jealously, and with so much confusion In Isaac’s old age, the rabbi concluded, King David came to him to sing the psalms, which he had just composed Isaac had gone blind, but when David sang, he saw suddenly an image of his own son Jacob wrestling an angel in a parking lot Isaac had had, in his lifetime, dozens of wives, and had fathered hundreds of children, but he dreamed of only one woman, and behind his eyes he swam again between her thighs like a fluorescent eel weaving between the pink coral, breathing in again the smell of seaweed, the emanation of life

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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fiction

August 2013

How to Be an American

Will Heinrich

fiction

August 2013

Begin with a man on the beach. The sea is strangely iridescent, lighter in its lights and blacker in...

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May 2014

How Imagination Remembers

Maria Fusco

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May 2014

How imagination remembers is twofold, an enfolded act of greed and ingenuity. I believe these impulses to be linked...

poetry

September 2016

Two Poems

Daisy Lafarge

poetry

September 2016

siphoning   habitual catalogue of the day, intro ft. blossom fallen from a gated property and crisping on the...

 

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