One of the first things marginalized researchers in the humanities discover is that the choices about who and what materials are important enough to include in archives, and how that material will be presented, actively works to nullify non-whiteness and queerness.
I’ve become aware of the fuzziness of my experience of time. Days slide together or drift apart, making the present feel elastic and stretchy. This elasticity—part of getting older and living through a global pandemic—is also the bread and butter of time travel narratives…
How can a narrative locked in place register the sprawl of global supply chains?
What relationship, if any, does the anticolonial novel of ideas bear to the contemporary “theory novel”? Nguyen’s novels expose the tension between the two forms.
“Writing is a community practice,” Garza says. “When we write, we write with others. We always write with materials that are not our own.”
“I write only when I have something to say” — How should a Caribbean writer of my generation take this? Moreover, Is it a good advice for a teacher to give her writing students?
“Home is a place where I exist at every age.”
Novels, she says, should provide a “vision of life” rather than a “fascinated horror” of it.
“Who do we, as writers, choose not to leave behind?”
“The novel wraps itself around you like a cocoon.”
I think of my favorite literary interviews as revelatory events: occasions, in Toni Morrison’s words, “when some moment or phrase flares like a lightning bug” and all participants “see it at the same time and… remember it the same way”.