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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...

To Lilia Lardone Summer was ending The air already smelled like smoke, but it still looked clear, sunny The women swept their sidewalks and burned the first dry leaves on the corners When classes began, so did the girls’ fifteenth birthday parties It hadn’t been long since I’d seen my first dead body Tolchi Pereno threw herself under the train because she was pregnant We sat at the same desk, and during geography class she burst out crying, though no one had said anything to her Blanquita Calzolari had called on Tano Buriolo to present his homework, and Tano tried to explain that thing about meridians and parallels They say that meridians are lines that divide the world into halves, Tano said, and Blanquita Calzolari agreed   They say that the two halves are equal and the dividing line is a very fine line, so fine that you can’t see it, Tano said, and Blanquita Calzolari agreed They say that the parallels are the same lines, but in reverse They say that if you change hemispheres and you pass over a meridian or parallel, it sends shivers down your back Blanquita Calzolari lifted her gaze, her eyes suddenly alert   Who says that? she asked   Tano Buriolo retorted immediately, The wise say so   No, that’s wrong, Blanquita Calzolari declared Return to your seat Then Tolchi Pereno burst out crying Blanquita looked at her and asked what happened   Nothing happened, Tolchi said I’m having a nervous attack, that’s all, she said, and started to scream and took my hand, which was next to hers, and rested my hand on her chest   Feel this, feel this, she said Feel how my nerves are turning over inside   I noticed the edge of her bra under her knit sweater and something like termites over Tolchi’s heart I blushed   Go drink a glass of water and come back, Blanquita Calzolari said   Tolchi let my hand go and kept hiccupping in silence, sitting on her bench We looked at her She got up and left and returned after a while with red eyes and a swollen face Early that evening, she threw herself under

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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poetry

October 2012

Saint Anthony the Hermit Tortured by Devils

Stephen Devereux

poetry

October 2012

  Sassetta has him feeling no pain, comfortable even, Yet stiffly dignified at an odd angle like the statue...

poetry

September 2012

Crossing Over

Eleanor Rees

poetry

September 2012

As he sails the coracle of willow and skins his bird eyes mirror the moon behind cloud. Spring tide...

poetry

July 2011

Letter of a Madman

Guy de Maupassant

TR. Will Stone

poetry

July 2011

Introduction by the translator In the early hours of 2 January 1892, sensing the approach of insanity, the renowned...

 

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