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Rose McLaren

Rose McLaren is an artist in London.



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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...

It’s harder to leave your burning home after you’ve spent so much time cleaning its floors Watching those baseboards char should be enough to make any good woman lie back in bed and let it happen The fact that I got up and hauled Angela out with me is proof enough of my selfishness   The years with her father before the fire—when I still had my figure and the energy to walk about, the will and ability to be moved—passed with such seeming ease, but the truth of those days and the trouble they held is lost in the archives of memory’s drunken catalog Its delicate, age-soaked pages stay with me like an old phone book packed and moved out of some sentimental urge   If anyone has found an adequate response to that fiction of chemical and circumstance which is love, it is my Angela Even when she was a girl, she squirmed out of my grasp and kissed the kitchen table instead She was barely toddling and would force me with pleads and screaming to spend hours on the bridge over the county road, tucking flowers between its wooden slats   She shrank into a child’s malaise when they demolished the old post office The workers had dumped the remnants of the structure and covered it with a few buckets of sand, and she wept and reached for it This wasn’t her usual brand of sadness, the kind she had when her blanket was tumbling in the dryer and she could only watch from her crib, a few sweet tears on her cheek At the pile, she was hysterical I let her down and she stumbled toward it, tripping over her feet, grinding dirt into her hands and face, ruining her play clothes She kicked and crawled, wailing, scrabbling at the pile until finally her fingers found purchase She took hold and leaned back with her full weight, wrenching a brick free and inspiring a plume of dirt A man walking down the road stopped and stared She cleared the brick from the pile, covered it with her body, and was asleep

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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November 2016

The Miserablist

Anne Boyer

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November 2016

This vision was strongly nebulous, an indeterminate but bold reaction only because it was so much like one of...

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May 2014

Preparation for Trial

Ben Hinshaw

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May 2014

Establish remorse from outset. Express bewilderment at sequence of events so unlikely, so absurd and catastrophic. Assure all present...

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January 2017

Take Comfort

Heather Radke

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January 2017

I. One week after Buzz and Heather broke up, she dragged her mattress into her living room. She moved...

 

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