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raven_cromwellSo as some--most?--of y'all know, Amal El Mohtar is one of my two favorite book critics, not least cause she loves the dark and gritty as well as the profoundly hopeful and loves sweeping, romantic poetry as much as I do. So when she offered a free version of her newsletter, I leapt at the chance. (Honestly, were I not on a fixed income I'd pay her in a second flat and any of y'all who can afford it and like the content showcased should immediately subscribe to the paying version.
One of the things I immediately learned about Amal through her newsletter, and slightly before that, her twitter, was how versatile a writer she is. She's as comfortable handling the intricacies of queer politics as the complexity of sci-fi and the gloriousness of poetry or music as the humore and heart of cartoons, and that versatility was on full display today. She's in Dublin, and amid her authorial duties, she decided to tackle history in Old Stone
Here's a brief sampling for your edification:
If you want more, including the dangers of the romantic mode of expression with a tangent to give some of the most beautiful Coleridge quotes I've ever seen and some, by all accounts, lovely Irish photos, see the full post and then browse the rest of the free content; I promise it'll be the best afternoon you've spent in a long while.
One of the things I immediately learned about Amal through her newsletter, and slightly before that, her twitter, was how versatile a writer she is. She's as comfortable handling the intricacies of queer politics as the complexity of sci-fi and the gloriousness of poetry or music as the humore and heart of cartoons, and that versatility was on full display today. She's in Dublin, and amid her authorial duties, she decided to tackle history in Old Stone
Here's a brief sampling for your edification:
When we touch old stone, we’re touching death and survival at once. We’re touching the people who shaped it, and the people who continue to shape it—the people who touch it, day on day on day down the years, leaving the oil and salt of themselves to be layered over the markers layered over the dead to show they lived. And when I live—when I feel at my most alive, travelling, marking every breath and scent and colour because it’s the first time and may be the last time, because I don’t know when next I’ll breathe or smell or see these things again—I reach for age, for old, broken places. In touching them I can imagine myself ancient, too, and endless—in continuity with something that has been shattered by the world, over and over, but has withstood it too.
If you want more, including the dangers of the romantic mode of expression with a tangent to give some of the most beautiful Coleridge quotes I've ever seen and some, by all accounts, lovely Irish photos, see the full post and then browse the rest of the free content; I promise it'll be the best afternoon you've spent in a long while.
