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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...

The White Review · Cecilia Knapp – ‘All My Ex Boyfriends Are Having A Dinner Party’ all my ex boyfriends are having a dinner party   comparing their tight obliques how red their meat hattricks for their grassroots teams saying they once had me in a car how I can never keep my mouth shut I always wanted to stay the night I’m dieting again burning my hands sipping low cal miso on a moving train I smile at other joggers like I’m enjoying this the dentist says I have yellow teeth his hands holding my tongue mum said there is nothing you can’t do so long as you’re wearing washing up gloves a purple leaflet in the waiting room asks me if life has worked out a) better b) worse or c) the same for one thousand pounds I can fix my teeth mum used to ballroom dance a wooden spoon weeping with the radio I’ve been keeping my fallen eye lashes in a bag I spit pink foam into the sink decide this week I will eat only eggs until the days smudge do the fat burn challenge pain is a man in a blue suit I see people eating crisps in public on Mondays like they have no guilt     The White Review · Cecilia Knapp – ‘We Girls Our Names’ We girls our names   on pink keyrings, him gargling a shadow outside dad’s house He can’t come in At the petrol station he buys a bottle, a cigarette between us Christmas stink swings from the rear-view, I lean to kiss the blond grit on his chin, my neck sliced by the seatbelt Our scents quickening, the Lynx hiding faith, tongues bleached mint At 14 I’m all worship, small knowing, a seal pup in waiting legs newly slick from dad’s razor Later

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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Art

Issue No. 8

A Fictive Retrospective of the Bruce High Quality Foundation

Legacy Russell

Art

Issue No. 8

Here are some details of art history that may or may not be true:   In 2008 I was...

feature

Issue No. 14

Editorial

The Editors

feature

Issue No. 14

Having several issues ago announced that we would no longer be writing our own editorials, the editors’ (ultimately inevitable)...

poetry

Issue No. 2

The Brothel

Kit Buchan

poetry

Issue No. 2

I unearthed a little brothel in the spring of forty-three, It was captained by a midwife who was ninety...

 

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