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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...

You are worried about the bird thing but that’s the last thing you want to think about right now, smoking the first of your secret birthday cigarettes You’re outside the house by the giant concrete sink, laundry covering the surface – today it’s the daughter’s underwear, the wife’s scratchy lace bras, the husband’s tennis shirts with holes in the underarm Delicate things, white things, things that deserve to be washed carefully by hand as opposed to thrown into the American-imported washing machine, which will ruthlessly transform anything into a wilted grey smock if you’re not careful about sorting through every single item and removing anything with the slightest hint of darkness The sun’s only just coming up; everyone in the house is still asleep, though the husband’s alarm will be going off soon in order to escape the inevitable Monday morning traffic jams He never needs breakfast prepared though; he’ll have a ham and cheese sandwich in the office, but as soon as you finish this cigarette you’ll have to head to the kitchen to begin preparing the coffee Not just yet though For now, you still have time   As you smoke you hold the cigarette the way a man would, between your thumb and index finger, like the men sitting on stools you used to see during your childhood You inhale deeply, enjoy the brief sight of the flame glowing at the tip before tucking the stub under a triangle-shaped rock, where the stiff orange corpses of previous cigarettes are neatly lined up: buried away, hidden You wash your hands with the thin sliver of blue soap that always leaves your skin terribly dry, the areas between your fingers red and cracking, but there’s nothing quite like it for getting rid of the nicotine stink from your fingertips – just as a precaution Just to be safe This way, you can be sure that nobody will notice   Now the last thing you need to do before heading inside is check on the bird thing, which should take less than two minutes, assuming there aren’t any problems (which there very rarely are)

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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feature

Issue No. 7

Bracketing the World: Reading Poetry through Neuroscience

James Wilkes

feature

Issue No. 7

The anechoic chamber at University College London has the clutter of a space shared by many people: styrofoam cups,...

Interview

Issue No. 1

Interview with Marina Warner

Elizabeth Dearnley

Interview

Issue No. 1

At the beginning of From the Beast to the Blonde, her study of fairy tales and their tellers, Marina...

fiction

June 2017

Ferocity

Nicola Lagioia

TR. Antony Shugaar

fiction

June 2017

A pale three-quarter moon lit up the state highway at two in the morning. The road connected the province...

 

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