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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...

‘World finance had, in 2008, a near-death experience’   The words belong to a partner of a renowned international law firm The partner was standing at the podium, looking over a sea of bearded faces within which bobbed a scattering of men and women without any facial hair, some of whom (those from firms that were days away from collapsing) were jotting down every word as if the speech were a newly unearthed Gospel The partner was trying his best to kill time before the introductory speaker showed up It was already 08:30 and he had yet to arrive The partner therefore ad-libbed into the dark sea, praying that nobody was really listening to what he was saying   The introductory speaker – a Revenue Recognition Analyst for the redundantly named Halal Islamic Bank (HIB) – reached the office of the renowned international law firm at 08:32, two minutes after the time he was supposed to have started the address for the Gillette-sponsored Islamic Banking Roadshow He was late because this was his first time at that particular law firm’s offices and the blue GPS-dot on his mobile phone had been bouncing about erratically in the City which had led him to take a taxi, which should have been faster than walking but wasn’t His face was covered in a film of sweat, lubricating his nose and making his glasses slide down The woman who greeted him at the reception was pretty, then, until he pushed them back up She gave him a concerned look, then checked him off the list and opened the little glass gate that led to the elevators The elevator mirrors confirmed what he had feared ever since he got into the taxi: his left underarm was covered in sweat   He had a tendency to sweat profusely, so much so that it would seep through not only his undershirt, but also his shirt and in extreme cases such as today, even his jacket The reason his right armpit was dry was because he had received a Botox®-injection to stop the sweating three days ago They had called it an injection,

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

February 2013

The Currency of Paper

Alex Kovacs

fiction

February 2013

‘Labour is external to the worker, i.e. it does not belong to his essential being; that in his work,...

Prize Entry

April 2016

Seasickness

David Isaacs

Prize Entry

April 2016

‘How would you begin?’   She puts a finger to her lips, a little wrinkled still from the water,...

Interview

January 2016

Interview with Fiston Mwanza Mujila

Roland Glasser

Interview

January 2016

Roof terrace of the Shangri-La hotel, Santa Monica, Los Angeles, USA; late afternoon, 8 October 2015. We ensconce ourselves in...

 

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