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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...

  MODES OF BEING   A new hobby of mine is repeating a word until it strays from its centre of meaning, so risibly            alive (an egg tumbling through grass) unburdened of itself, beyond thinking I lead a rich and duplicitous life on the ward I’m fed well All the residents know me, their cherubic faces assuaging my fears in the midst of some sinister music   I’m happy enough letting the television play, allowing sunlight its languorous dominion   In the cool phosphorescence of these bus stop days (my dust rising and returning) comes feeling       CRYPSIS   Stop the gunboats! Lately I’m relishing being a strange fungus in the meaning of the hall unmolested, my brain a razed monastery of thoughts a prized gourd at the funeral of verbs   I’ve only growth as a means of mobility Here beneath the smashed, chaotic flagstones a specious beach   bestrewn with slogans, garbled soundbites cracked versions of ourselves exhumed in sunlight in a tableau of what’s real   What to tell you? That it’s enough to make beautiful things to love redly despite the expiry date of dogs   That the mind blooms serenely, in virtue of itself: a feted puffball   of which these poems are the spores       THREE OR FOUR HILLS AND A CLOUD   Morning Time to crank up the machine without which this wouldn’t be possible   (You gesture towards some tangerines, a laptop, a fresh pot of coffee)   This still life cannot excite me today, will not sate nor diminish this longing to escape this life for jungle scenes to play swingball with vigour, meet monkeys   Bad example, but you know what I mean about torpor, the bureaucrat’s burden, so often fishing in stagnant pools when each door opens onto salvation   In the next life (whoever you are) I’ll be good, like the spring, if not better I’ll wade out into flowerful fields and disappear I’ll see you tomorrow  

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

November 2016

Nothing Old, Nothing, New, Nothing, Borrowed, Nothing Blue

Iphgenia Baal

poetry

November 2016

look at your kitchen look at your kitchen oh my god look at your kitchen it’s delightful only wait...

Interview

Issue No. 4

Interview with Ahdaf Soueif

Jacques Testard

Interview

Issue No. 4

In 1999, Ahdaf Soueif’s second novel, The Map of Love, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize, eventually losing out...

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November 2014

Every Night is Like a Disco: Iraq 2003

Paul Currion

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November 2014

That day at Kassim’s, there was no music. There was almost no sound at all, not even the echoes...

 

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