Dear reader, The essay below forms Chapter Thirteen—near the book’s midpoint—of Bell-Metal and Bog-Light: Irish Gothic from Sídh to Sacrament […]
Irish Vampirisms before Dracula: Dearg-Due and Abhartach Read More »
Which creature returned from every road with its own tail between its teeth, and by chewing that circle kept a
The book lies on the table like a clot of dried blood: a red square, almost monochrome, the title Plemię
“Plemię” as Archive of the Underside Read More »
The colossal railway clock, suspended in the chill atmosphere of the worn-out platform, announced the terminus of hope, a specific
Drunkards, Dads, and the End of History. Read More »
The wind that scours the basalt shoulder of Edinburgh’s New Town carries more than coal grit and North Sea salt;
A Requiem for the Victorian Soul in the Cabinet of Dr. Jekyll Read More »
“Philosophy is the art of dying. In learning how to die, one learns how to live.”¹ Simon Critchley’s sentence rises
Hemispheres of Loss: Post-Imperial Ghosts and the Latin American Uncanny Read More »
Der Mensch spielt nur, wo er in voller Bedeutung des Worts Mensch ist, und er ist nur da ganz Mensch,
Where Whisper Becomes Homeland: Lothar Herbst, an Untamed Soul Read More »
My mother, God praise her soul, taught Polish in Warsaw, in a city where every façade carries bullet scars and
“The first step towards enslaving the mind is to narrow one’s perspective” Read More »
“The tongue can conceal the truth, but the eyes never!” — Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita¹ The sentence hangs
Between them runs a wire Read More »
“…the call for unlimited births is imperialism, retaliation, a future war. The day on which Polish women would agree with
Bus Routes, Broken Prayers Read More »
