The Nemo trilogy works like a fast meditation on Kubla Khan’s paradise, a classic hell of first ice and then fire. The infernal translation from the Antarctic’s ‘sunless sea’ turned to ‘ a hot and copper sky’ is caught in the arc of an Ancient Mariner’s tale, the sun a hellish moon like the alien eye of an alligator, ‘small and sunk’ which ends in the slithering horrors of ‘Christabel.’ What Nemo is charting is a journey where the awesome fountain of the centuries erupts and there’s a demon lover wailing something dreadful under a waning moonshine. She’s gone to a sacred universe where all the women are lunar women. It’s a reaffirmation of what happened a long time ago in a dreamtime.
Richard Marshall reviews Moore and O’Neill’s Nemo: River of Ghosts.
“About a foot, a foot and a half. Egg-shaped. A round base and it tapers up towards the top. It’s smooth. Yesterday it was smoother. It’s hard. Metal. A hard plastic. When we first brought it home it seemed a lot softer. It’s gotten harder. There are ridges now, around the base.
How does she.
Breastfeed. How does she breastfeed?
I don’t know. Ask her.”
New fiction by Thomas McMullan, with art by Anastasia Kashian.
Remembering saddens me still, even years later. How many exactly, I don’t know anymore. Ten or maybe thirteen. And why do I always live only in memory? Soul heavy from too much knowing, body tired from feeling pensive and powerless at the same time, so riven by this obsessive ennui that nothing, or almost nothing, can distract it anymore. Back then, if I recall correctly, I used to describe the world as a theater where processions of corpses danced in a macabre ball of drives and desires. My contempt and ennui did not, however, keep me from observing how this dance dissolved into an amorous waltz.
Excerpt from Sphinx by Anne Garréta, translated by Emma Ramadan.
Writing is a solitary, sometimes lonely business. It does eventually become a collaborative process of sorts, but only at the bitter end, working through final drafts with editors and quibbling over fonts with cover designers. Last Friday was a very different experience for me. It was fun even. For a short while I became involved with a gang of artists.
Simon Crump on Luxury Complex: Remembering Satan.
Solicited sex from a single parent.
By Peyton Burgess.
mainlined those traditions yet
now synthesize half the staves
trying the new Brora 40 primeur
at work to exhume † latebrous
from Blount for our dream pubs
your basic nightly annealing
the throat for tomorrow’s vibrations
By Colin Lee Marshall.
Chun articulates the construction of the individual by software by noting that: “[c]omputer programs shamelessly use shifters, pronouns like ‘my’ and ‘you’, that address you, and everyone else, as a subject.” WoW stages neoliberalism’s fetishisation of the individual while disguising the paradox engendered by the conferral of radical agency onto every individual. The player feels empowered while unbeknownst to them, their agency is in fact an illusion.
Rafael Lubner on how World of Warcraft functions as an atopic form of neoliberal ideology.
The crawling man has a bifurcated nose
which is enough apology, pavement’s blood
by night dances even when it is still,
not whose height omniscient is the spectral.
By Corey Wakeling.
The enormous difficulty of locating a surrogate commensurate with the social, moral and political power of a departed Almighty is the provenance of Terry Eagleton’s bracing intellectual history Culture and the Death of God. Its central argument – that genuine atheism is both difficult and rare – seems at first blush a bit of wishful apologism, the death rattle of a proud but exhausted cultural model. After all, the diminishment of the sacred is no longer merely the overbold conjecture of an intellectual fringe element. And yet, by way of an ironically Darwinian feat of cultural adaptation, He remains alive and well – if, admittedly, much transformed.
Dustin Illingworth reviews Terry Eagleton‘s Culture and the Death of God.
I’m not convinced that we can decide to minimise the salience of reproduction and all the ramifications that it has. It seems to me that reproduction is going to have to be made sense of in some way in any society, and that there are certain limits on the ways that we can make sense of it. However, I don’t think that from this necessity of sexual difference it follows that men and women have to occupy different social roles or that those roles must be hierarchical. By and large, women can carry, bear, and breast-feed babies and men can’t, but it doesn’t follow that women rather than men have to be the principal child-carers in every family.
Continuing the End Times series, Richard Marshall interviews Alison Stone.