Bordernotes
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Life is Puzzling
Édouard Levé wrote Autoportrait in 2005. It was followed by his book Suicide in 2007, and then by death at his own hand so shortly after. The English edition appeared in 2012, seamlessly translated by Lorin Stein, editor of The Paris Review, if you can say about a book of apparent fragments that it is seamless…
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Kim Gordon: Star Turns
Meeka Walsh’s introductory essay to Issue 134, the all women issue.
Kim Gordon has just published her memoir, Girl In A Band (William Morrow, Dey Street, 2015) and the opening chapter is called “The End.” After 30 years Sonic Youth, the band she co-founded with Thurston Moore, whom she married three years later, was playing its final concert in a small town outside São Paulo, Brazil, in the rain. Their marriage of 27 years had just ended. The South American tour was a final commitment, the last one to be met as Sonic Youth…
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Trust Accounts
Meeka Walsh’s introductory essay to Issue 133: we are monsters.
Growing up in Canada, I was quietly startled by the intake of breath when I would say the word “evil” to describe someone I knew. I didn’t use the term often, I assigned it carefully but I recognized its application was something that just wasn’t done and I kept the descriptive designation to myself. It’s different now. The term is broadly used to describe countless actions and the designation is received without accompanying questions…
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Dangerous Persuasions
Meeka Walsh’s introductory essay to Issue 134, the all women issue.
Paper covers rock, scissors cuts paper, rock smashes scissors, paper covers rock. A letter is just paper, and so very much more.
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The Woman Who Ate Money: A Parable for Our Times
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Gertrude Stein’s Dog
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Dossier Why
Imre Kertész’s memoir, Dossier K
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A Mother’s Story, for Brief Moments, in Dreams: The Problems of Language
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Indifference and Donkeys, A Tale
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The City in Decline: Dreaming of Mickey Mouse
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Behind Our Eyelids, Dreaming
The state of dreaming, the carrier for obscure content whose meaning and full description eludes us, the event of it, the gap we seek to close without ever intending to, that particular sensation is much desired. An indrawn breath away, a substance heavier and solider than air, an etheric suspension so endlessly sought after its label should caution, “opiate.” This space we can and can’t achieve is always individual; collective dreaming, and longing is something more akin to propaganda and is manufactured. What I’m meaning to describe is personal.
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The Splendid Life of Feeling
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