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Liberating the Canon: Intersectionality and Innovation in Literature

By Isabel Waidner.


Liberating the Canon (Waidner, ed., 2018) is an edited anthology capturing the contemporary emergence of nonconforming and radically innovative literatures in the UK and beyond. Historically, sociopolitical marginalisation and avant-garde aesthetics have not come together in UK literature, counterintuitively divorcing outsider experience and formal innovation. Bringing together intersectionality (1) and literary innovation, Liberating the Canon (LTC) is designed as an intervention against the normativity of literary publishing contexts and the institution of ‘Innovative Literature’ as such. This is how we redo canonical: We don’t just work across the identity categories (BAME, LGBTQI, woman, working-class) and their various intersections. (We don’t just put our difference to work.) We also work across formal distinction (prose and poetry, and various genre distinctions) and across disciplines (literature, art, performance, indie publishing literature, critical theory and various subcultural contexts), unrepressing what the cultural theorist Raymond Williams termed the ‘multiplicity of writing’ (2). I’ll get back to what that means and why it matters.

When I started editing the anthology in Autumn ’17, I did not expect the level of support the project would be met with. All but one of the writers I invited agreed to contribute original and previously unpublished work (in print), foregoing any commissioning fee or payment (3). Joanna Walsh (me, emailing). I’m editing an anthology of innovative literature for Dostoyevsky Wannabe, the Manchester-based independent press. The idea is to capture the ongoing emergence of innovative and nonconforming forms of writing in the UK, and to make connections to likeminded US literatures. I’m hardly in the position to ask you to contribute. There is no budget. Dostoyevsky Wannabe work with a nonprofit publishing ethos, that is, they sell their books via Amazon at cost price in order to make them affordable to as broad a readership as possible. Publishers, designer, editor and authors are working for free, and mostly without institutional support. The aim is to produce books that challenge literary conventions, and to precipitate the ongoing disruption of the British publishing establishment. Anyway, I’m writing an intro about the relationship between marginalised identity (BAME, LGBTQI, women, working-class, at the intersections) and formal innovation in literature. The way they have not gone together in UK literature until now. You wouldn’t consider endorsing the book? Naw (Walsh, replying). I’d love to contribute! I’m occasionally writing stories toward a collection that might be ready in a year or two, so this gives me the impetus to finish one of them (end, Walsh).

South London playwright, director and performer Mojisola Adebayo agreed to contribute the first part of her forthcoming play, titled Stars. According to Adebayo, ‘Stars is a play with animation and music that tells the story of an old lady who travels into outer space… in search of her own orgasm. The play poetically explores the power and politics of pleasure for women, girls and intersex people. It questions why millions of people are prevented from being able to reach the heights of sexual pleasure as a result of sexual trauma and genital mutilation practices, traditions and surgical interventions that continue to this day, on every continent, and connects all these themes with space travel.’ Combining a situated politics (based on personal and professional experience, and research), and genre-crossing, culturally hybrid, formally innovative writing, Adebayo’s Stars is doing exactly the kind of literary work that needs doing now.

Steven J. Fowler (me again). I’m editing an anthology. Would you like to contribute a piece of writing like MueuM, the fiction that was short-listed for The White Review Short Story Prize in 2014? I loved MueuM. Have this unpublished prose piece, titled The Bassment Gallery (Fowler, on email). It’s a bit brutal (end, Fowler). The Bassment Gallery quotes bisexual Polish absurdist Witold Gombrowicz (1904-1969), is littered with ‘spelling mistakes’, and is doing exactly the kind of literary work that needs doing now.

Or, Roz Kaveney (hi). You wouldn’t want to contribute something like Tiny Pieces of Skull, your pioneering novel depicting the transgender experience in London and Chicago in the early ’80s. Long shot, I know. I want to situate the writers of now as part of a longer genealogy of outsider writing (end, my email). Written in 1988, Kaveney’s Tiny Pieces of Skull was admired by contemporaries including Kathy Acker in manuscript. It received the attention of two publishers at the time, who ended up passing it on as too risqué. It did not find a publisher until London-based Team Angelica put it out in 2015. Tiny Pieces of Skull went on to win a Lambda Literary Award for best trans fiction in the same year. Do you want the abortive sequel to Tiny Pieces? It’s never been published (Kaveney, replying). Some of it may be a bit TMI [too much information] (end, Kaveney). She sent me Cream Whip, a fictional or autobiographical account of the rarely written about practicalities of dilation (the use of a dilator to prevent a new vagina from closing after gender reassignment surgery).

Finally, Nat Raha (me, emailing). Thanks for the invitation (Raha, responding). The project sounds great and very much aligned to the kind of editorial work that I feel most strongly about right now (end, Raha). I could go on. Project Liberating the Canon, as it was not then called, touched a nerve. It is a project shared by many. Or in any case by the contributors Mojisola Adebayo, Jess Arndt (US), Jay Bernard, Richard Brammer, Victoria Brown, Steven J. Fowler, Juliet Jacques, Sara Jaffe (US), Roz Kaveney, R. Zamora Linmark (US), Mira Mattar, Seabright D. Mortimer, Nat Raha, Nisha Ramayya, Rosie Šnajdr, Timothy Thornton, Joanna Walsh, Eley Williams and myself (Isabel Waidner).

LTC is not just an intervention against the normativity of innovative publishing contexts in the UK. If literature, any literature, should be relevant now, it must have the potential to help counteract the rise of conservatism, nationalism and similarly divisive ideologies and policy-making. In a ‘post-truth’ sociopolitical context where powerful narratives and metaphors shape public opinion and influence electoral results, fictions and literary imaginaries must aim to advance a more progressive politics within marginalised communities and beyond, and to act as a mode of cultural resistance. In order to ensure that this kind of work can be written and published, what counts as literary innovation has got to change.


Asked about the lack of diversity in the publishing industry in 2015, Black British publishing pioneer and diversity campaigner Margaret Busby spoke of the bore of having to address the same topic for 30 years (4). Despite good intentions and ongoing initiatives to diversify (such as Penguin’s WriteNow, a mentoring programme for new writers from underrepresented communities), literary publishing (and literature itself) in the UK remain bastions of class and exclusiveness in 2018. But if literary publishing is bad, innovative (or experimental, or avant-garde) publishing is worse (5). Literary innovation has been the prerogative of the white middle-class patriarchy (to call a spade a spade), whereas the rest of us have been writing, what, memoir or romcom. Genre fiction. As if by coincidence, commercial publishing categories map exactly onto historical high and low culture distinctions. Literature, by definition, is high culture. The rest is chick lit, sci-fi, speculative fiction, you name it. The ways in which distinctions between high and low culture have operated to marginalise BAME, LGBTQI, working-class and women writers have been theorised in the field of British cultural studies since its inception in the 1950s. Accordingly, genre distinctions, in particular the distinction between literary fiction (high culture) and genre fiction (low culture), are structures that actively but implicitly reproduce the literary canon in its exclusiveness and normativity.

Most of the texts included in LTC are displacing genre categories. They work across (classist) high and low culture distinctions. Juliet Jacques‘s acclaimed Trans: A Memoir (Verso’s title) combines trans history, queer theory and autobiography to produce a quite different kind of memoir, not unlike US writer Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts (2015) combines gender theory with personal accounts of queer pregnancy and filmmaker Harry Dodge’s (Nelson’s partner) top surgery. The Holiday Camp (Jacques, LTC) is a short fiction about teenager Sam’s first experiments with drag in the context of the titular British holiday camp. Against a backdrop of provincial transphobic and homophobic bullying (gaylord, bender, and my personal favourite ‘Are you a girl or a boy?’), Sam (in drag) takes herself to the ball (so to speak), even if the ball is in Reigate, Surrey. Jacques may or may not have enrolled autobiographical elements. But I’d be surprised if anyone wrote homophobia and closeted longing as well as this if they hadn’t experienced it. In Never the Blade, Mira Mattar splices a history of the pink plastic flamingo (from the working class lawns of the 1950s, via John Waters, to Primark and Prada), and a reflection on unbelonging, weddedness, unweddedness, hen parties, love and the unruliness of the body. While Jess Arndt‘s Serape (in LTC) is a straight (NOT) fiction set during the Gold Rush period in San Francisco, Deep Desert (also in the anthology) is an autofiction or interior travelogue written during their time living in the Mojave Desert. Fantômas Takes Sutton (Waidner, LTC) refracts my real-life sojourn in suburban Sutton through a pro-active reading of Julio Cortázar’s 1975 pamphlet Fantômas Versus the Multinational Vampires (reissued by Semiotext(e) in 2014). Cortázar wrote his Fantômas in response to having attended the Second Russell Tribunal in ’73, an international committee investigating human-rights abuses in Latin America. At the time I was writing the first draft of my Fantômas (6), the Conservative Party under David Cameron had just been elected for a second term, paving the way for the consequential EU referendum in 2016. I did not know then the result of the Brexit vote, but I did know that the dismantling of social security and disability rights under the Tory leadership had been termed a humanitarian catastrophe by the UN. In this context, Fantômas Takes Sutton imagines myself and a non-closeted, gender nonconforming version of Julio Cortázar spearheading a suburban counter-austerity avant-garde.

The extent to which British innovative literature intersects with international genealogies is a question worth raising. For example, New Narrative is a movement and theory of queer and working-class avant-garde writing which emerged in the US and Canada from the 1970s onwards and which is currently experiencing a resurgence in the US and also the UK (7). Not only did New Narrative converge high culture (literary experimentalism) and low culture (pop and subcultural references, sex and gossip). Like other US and Canadian literatures, New Narrative also made headway towards displacing distinctions between prose and poetry, critical and creative writing, and the short story and novel forms. Why were these distinctions preserved in the UK for so long, and to what effects? Jay Bernard, Steven J. Fowler, Mira Mattar, Timothy Thornton and Eley Williams write both, prose and poetry. Arguably, everything they write is somewhere in between. Joanna Walsh‘s I Wish Someone Loved Me That Isn’t Capitalism (in LTC) is an exposition on sex and class, in short lines. Although New Narrative texts were circulating on the LGBTQI London art scene since the mid ’90s at least, they did not shape the wider literary landscape in Britain until fairly recently. At present, British publishers are (re)issueing form and genre-defying work from the US (Eileen Myles’s Chelsea Girls, Serpent’s Tail, 1994/2016), Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts (Melville House, 2016), Chris Kraus’s I Love Dick (Serpent’s Tail, 1997/2015), or Michelle Tea’s Black Wave (And Other Stories, 2017)), but their output of British fictions remains comparably normative and often mainstream.

LTC aims to fortify connections between contemporary innovative literatures in the UK and likeminded US literatures. We might be an island but influence travels. (Influence *should* travel.) One of the contributors to this volume is Filipino-American New Narrative writer R. Zamora Linmark. Rolling the R’s (1997) has justifiably acquired the status of a cult novel. It features a Farah Fawcett Fan Club and examines gayness and the South East Asian diasporic experience in 1970s Honolulu, Hawaii. Also tackling LGBTQI politics at the intersections, Linmark’s contribution to LTC, Dear Jesus, is a series of letters (prayers) responding to the legalisation of gay marriage in Hawaii in 2013. But beyond intersecting UK/US avant-garde genealogies and transatlantic exchange, the version of Britishness staged in LTC is already culturally hybrid. Mojsola Adebayo uses West-African story telling techniques (grioting) to problematise closeted lesbianism on a South London council estate. Steven J. Fowler‘s work draws on the East European avant-gardes (his experimental play from 2017 Mayakovsky, explored the life and death of the Russian poet, for example). Nisha Ramayya‘s contribution, Fainting Away, is part of States of the Body Produced by Love (forthcoming), a series of responses to states of being British-Indian, in relation to the colonial and postcolonial states of Britain and India. And I am a working-class LGBTQI European migrant and non-native English writer. This is the kind of Britain we are (this is 2018).


As well as formal distinctions, Raymond Williams wrote that disciplinary limitations suppressed the multiplicity of writing. As a matter of fact, most contemporary authors writing literatures which combine marginalised identity and formal innovation have come through disciplines other than literature, and/or they are working with a transdisciplinary orientation. Mojisola Adebayo‘s plays fuse history, politics, drama, poetry, autobiography, fact and fiction, much like New Narrative writing by Dodie Bellamy, Kevin Killian, Robert Glück or Renee Gladman has done in a US literature context. Jay Bernard is a writer and poet, but also a programmer for BFI FLARE (the London LGBTQI film festival) and an interdisciplinary artist. Joanna Walsh is a writer and illustrator (she drew the cover art for Jacques’ Trans: A Memoir, for example). Richard Brammer is a writer, publisher and co-founder of Dostoyevsky Wannabe (with Victoria Brown), self-taught computer coder and ex-NHS laboratory worker (an experience fictionalised in his 2017 chapbook The End of History). Victoria Brown is a working-class poet, world-class designer and co-founder of Dostoyevsky Wannabe. She is also full-time in data administration for the Probation Service. Juliet Jacques has a background in criticism (she wrote a book about the novelist Rayner Heppenstall) and journalism (her memoir started out as a Guardian blog). She is currently making a name for herself as an experimental filmmaker. I came to literature via music. Lastly with the indie band Klang, I released records on UK labels Rough Trade (2003) and Blast First (2002). LTC contributor Sara Jaffe‘s band, San Francisco-based Erase Errata, and Klang toured together in ’03. Jaffe was writing a tour diary at the time. In 2016, she released her debut novel Dryland (Tin House) to critical acclaim. Her contribution to this volume, the short narrative Baby in a Bar, deals with the subtle awkwardness of transitioning into queer parenting. It is through Jaffe that I heard of Jess Arndt, co-founder (with Jaffe) of US indie New Herring Press and third and final US contributor to LTC. ‘Wildly original’ (to quote from Maggie Nelson’s blurb), Arndt’s collection Large Animals (Catapult, 2017) problematises transdisciplinary subjects including the simultaneous openness and containment of (queer) bodies, human animal relationality and the pain of the editing process.

Why, then, are most contemporary, politically acute avant-garde writers coming through poetry, performance, art, film, you name it, and not prose literature? Let’s take as an example just one of the many exclusions where identity and innovation failed to coalesce in UK literature: queer avant-garde fiction. Queer and trans avant-garde performance (Travis Alabanza, David Hoyle, Le Gateau Chocolat, Scottee, Victoria Sin), film (John Akomfrah, Campbell X), art (Richard Dodwell, Evan Ifekoya, Charlotte Prodger), photography (Christa Holka, Jacob Love, Holly Revell), and more recently poetry (Jay Bernard, Steven J. Fowler, Nat Raha, Sophie Robinson, Timothy Thornton) are positively THRIVING in contemporary Britain. In contrast, there is hardly any queer avant-garde fiction. Neither has there been a significant tradition: historically, British queer experimental novels are scarce (Brigid Brophy’s In Transit, 1969, and Maureen Duffy’s The Microcosm, 1966, are exceptions). And despite their popularity, Ali Smith’s subtly experimental novels have yet to pave the way for more radically queer (or BAME, or working-class) literary experimentation. So why are queerness and experimentation thriving in British poetry and the other arts, and not in fiction? Between 1981 and ’86, the Labour-run Greater London Council developed a funding policy supporting multi-ethnic and community arts, which was instrumental in the emergence of the influential Black Audio Film Collective, for example. Also, the newly founded public service broadcaster Channel 4 became noted for its experimental programming, facilitating wide-scale distribution of gay and working-class British films or TV shows, e.g. performance artist David Hoyle’s The Divine David Presents and The Divine David Heals (1998-2000). These conditions enabled marginalised experimental forms in disciplines such as film, art and performance to emerge and, if not thrive, survive, in the UK since the 1980s. Was funding and development support available to literature in the same way, and if so, why is there no diverse legacy of British experimental fiction? In terms of racial inclusion in publishing, the Greater Access to Publishing group (GAP) campaigned for more BAME personnel in the UK publishing workforce in the ’80s, and the Arts Council initiated publishing apprenticeships at various points in the ’80s, ’90s, ’00s, until now. But the few BAME editors that came through had to be overly mindful that the BAME writers they commissioned (from Oxbridge, always) were commercially viable, so as not to reinforce the presumption that ‘black books don’t sell’. Black experimental works did not fall under this category (commercial), which is, of course, another presumption (‘experimental books don’t sell’). The conditions of (im)possibility that prevented the emergence of BAME, LGBTQI, women’s, or working-class experimental literatures in Britain historically are many-layered and underresearched. But the structures I discuss in this intro (genre, form and discipline) have something to do with it (literature’s extraordinary resistance to diversification and innovation). We’re back to this (classist) high and low culture thing.


Also positioned as directly opposed to literature (high culture) is subculture (it’s in the name). If there is one thing we know how to do well in Britain, it’s subculture. We are WORLD-LEADING at subculture. (Or we once were, at least.) Take for example the eternally generative punk and new romantic subcultures, which channelled the defiance of a generation into off-the-scale innovation in fashion, music and radical politics in the 1980s. New Romantic & Tender Hearts (Waidner, LTC) takes as its inspiration some of the real-life 1980s DIY fashion designers, such as Sui Juris and Bodymap. To an extent, these ‘small businesses’ were enabled by their founders’ imaginative use of Thatcher’s Enterprise Allowance Scheme (a Tory initiative which gave a guaranteed weekly income to unemployed people who set up their own business). DIY designers, record labels, club promoters, etc., ended up crossing into the mainstream, partially driving the widespread public resistance to Thatcher’s government. If Zeitgeist and economic resourcefulness enabled prolific subcultural production at the time, why didn’t anyone set up a DIY literary press? Or did they? Was literature part of these subcultures? Or was subcultural writing happening in zines, in ‘nonliterary’ formats and disciplines such as journalism (i-D, The Face)?

Precipitated by consecutive Tory governments since 2010, prohibitive rents and record levels of gentrification in London mean that the DIY spirit has gone out of fashion, literally. But it’s been making an entrance into publishing. Dostoyevsky Wannabe’s ethos is inspired in equal measures by independent cultures that arose in the 1980s and ’90s around cities as various as Glasgow, Scotland (The Pastels, Splash One), Olympia, USA (K Records, Riot Grrrl) and Dunedin, New Zealand (Flying Nun Records); and Penguin’s mid-20th century philosophy of making challenging literature affordable and available to the general public. Using contemporary print-on-demand technologies, DW have developed a publishing practice that allows them to print and widely distribute their books on zero overheads and little financial capital. They are combining book publishing with design, video production (original film trailers for every book), mixtapes, a The-Face-inspired culture mag (Swimmers Club) and the DW Switchboard, a digital interface connecting writers, publishers and other subcultural producers. As part of the wider digital disruption of UK publishing (driven by journals including 3:AM Magazine, Berfrois, Gorse, Minor Literature[s] and Queen Mob’s Teahouse), independent publishers like Dostoyevsky Wannabe, And Other Stories, Book Works, Dead Ink, Dodo Ink, Galley Beggar, Influx Press, or Tilted Axis are drastically changing what and whose work is being published, and as a result, what work is being written, by who. Most of the LTC contributors are lesbians, trans women, (gender)queers, some gay men. Many of us are BAME, working-class, women, migrants, or from a background of migration. We are a poster group for intersectionality by default. Intersectionality is (should be) the norm in nonmainstream LGBTQI communities, not the exception it might be in more rarefied contexts. We are multiplicitous, and so are our friends: LTC is edited in the spirit of inclusion and drawing alliances across differences (while being attentive to exclusions and hierarchies persisting in all of the liberation movements). Is this the emergence of a literary subculture in the UK? (YES).

v. (for vanguard)

‘This has been a sensational year for experimental fiction,’ LTC contributor Rosie Šnajdr writes in her round-up of experimental fiction in the Times Literary Supplement (10). It has. But liberating the canon is not just a question of printing an article about work that challenges literary conventions in an institution like the TLS, nor about inserting a couple of poc or people from a working-class background in high profile editorial positions. It goes without saying that these changes are indispensable. But widening participation (to use that term) in literature also requires a critical engagement with literary form. The writing itself has to transgress the various structures through which the avant-garde literary canon has perpetuated itself and its exclusiveness. To reiterate, the writing needs to work across various systems of oppression (intersectionality), across formal distinction (prose and poetry, critical and creative, and the various genres), and across disciplines. Same goes for publishing, editing, reading, referencing and designing curricula. Change literature (or what is defined as such) and the discipline will diversify. Diversify the discipline and the literature itself will change. Liberating the canon depends on inclusion and formal innovation in equal measures. The two are interrelated.

Tasked with adding ‘commas and full-stops and semicolons and god-knows-what-else in the correct places’ to an Eng Lang comprehension text (‘it had no punctuation at all, presumably to prove some kind of stupid point’), Eley Williams‘s protagonist in The Flood and the Keeper escapes into ‘grammarless dreaming’. The Flood and the Keeper is doing exactly the kind of literary work that needs doing now. An intently visual attempt to make sense of their own historical moment (trolls, hormones, disappointed parents), Jay Bernard‘s Now I’m Nearly 30 I’m Asked For ID All The Time is doing exactly the kind of literary work that needs doing now. (Staggering lines, literally.) Richard Brammer‘s Neoliberalism recruits Javascript to problematise supermarkets, being an autodidact not of choice but of necessity, and the reality of existing in a world not of one’s making. Seabright D. Mortimer‘s Supermarket Revelations engages Luce Irigaray’s critical theory in order to examine the violence of heteronormativity on a protagonist’s body while shopping in Tesco (or Morrisons). All of the work included in LTC is doing exactly the kind of literary work that needs doing now.

Liberating the Canon is out now on Dostoyevsky Wannabe. Contributors: Mojisola Adebayo, Jess Arndt (US), Jay Bernard, Richard Brammer, Victoria Brown, Steven J. Fowler, Juliet Jacques, Sara Jaffe (US), Roz Kaveney, R. Zamora Linmark (US), Mira Mattar, Seabright D. Mortimer, Nat Raha, Nisha Ramayya, Rosie Šnajdr, Timothy Thornton, Isabel Waidner, Joanna Walsh and Eley Williams.

Isabel Waidner is a writer and cultural theorist. She is the author of three books of innovative fiction, most recently Gaudy Bauble (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017), which the writer and critic Olivia Laing described as a ‘beguiling, hilarious, rollocking and language-metamorphosing novel’. Her articles and short fictions have appeared in journals including 3:AM, Berfrois, Configurations, The Happy Hypocrite, The Quietus and Minor Literature[s]. As part of the indie band Klang, Waidner released records on UK labels Rough Trade (2003) and Blast First (2004). She is a lecturer in Creative Writing at Roehampton University in London and the editor of Liberating the Canon: An Anthology of Innovative Literature (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2018).

(1) Intersectionality is the theory that various systems of oppression intersect to create social identities that are different from the component identities. The term was coined by Kimberlé Bradshaw in 1989.

(2) Williams, Raymond (1977) Marxism and Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press, p. 146. Williams wrote that formal and disciplinary limitations suppressed the multiplicity of writing at the still active and shaping stage.

(3) Many writers and publishers committed to challenging literary conventions and the exclusiveness of the publishing establishment have been prepared to work outside of the paying economy in order to effect change. This, too, needs to change (free labour).

(4) See here. For a recent take, see Arifa Akbar, “Diversity in publishing – still hideously middle-class and white?”, in The Guardian, 9 December 2017.

(5) For example, Cathy Park Hong, “Delusions of Whiteness in the Avant-Garde,” in Lana Turner Journal of Poetry, Issue 7, 3 November 2013. Or Juliana Spahr and Stephanie Young, foulipo, talk for CalArts Noulipo conference, 28–29 October 2005. Or Lauren Elkin (2013) ‘Oulipo Lite’, in The End of Oulipo? An Attempt to Exhaust a Movement. London: Zero Books, pp. 66-99.

(6) An early version of Fantômas Takes Sutton was published by 3:AM Magazine, 5 July 2015, eds. Joanna Walsh & Eley Williams.

(7) Dodie Bellamy & Kevin Killian (eds.) (2017) Writers Who Love Too Much: New Narrative Writing 1977-1997. New York: Nightboat Books. Gail Scott, Robert Glück, Camille Roy and Mary Burger, (eds.) (2004) Biting the Error: Writers Explore Narrative. Toronto: Coach House Books. See also Eileen Myles & Liz Kotz (eds.) (1999) The New Fuck You: Adventures in Lesbian Reading. Los Angeles: Semiotext(e)/MIT Press.

(8) Margaret Busby, ‘Is it still a case of plus ca change?’, in The Bookseller, 4 November 2016.

(9) Labels like A-Cold-Wall*, Craig Green and Nasir Mazhar have come through in London in recent years, but the clothes are expensive.

(10) Rosie Šnajdr, ‘Toothsome Prose’, in Times Literary Supplement, Nr. 5981, 15 November 2017, pp. 27-28.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Tuesday, January 16th, 2018.