Vienna Marius Kociejowski A green Tyrolean hat with a feather tucked in its side was the reason I swore never to go back to Vienna. Also there had been the man at the cash till in the shop of the Kunsthistorisches Museum who, when I bought some postcards, took each one and slowly bent it, not so much that it would cause a crease but enough to indicate his opinion of me while at the same time putting himself just beyond the reach of accusation. Pettiness is the functionary’s most finely honed weapon and against it there is very little by way of defence except, perhaps, pretending not to notice. I rack my brain for a likeness of him, a single detail, a broken button or an unruly eyelash, anything to give him a voice, a presence, but it was all such a long time ago and, if my calculations are correct, the silly fool is in his grave. Why, though, this ridiculous exercise of power? Did he not, as I do, have to bow down to tie his shoelaces? Are we not, by this act alone, made humble?

Another reason for my intense dislike of Vienna was that not a single B&B would give us a bed for the night, every enquiry we made met with a sharp nein even when rooms were advertised as available. It was almost as if there were some network of spies, warning people in advance of a suspicious, roving couple. It would be the same story, a day later, in Salzburg where finally we got a room in a small hotel owned by an Italian couple. These are the only times in my life ... read more

Michael Brett Tomorrow it will all run backwards

Tomorrow, it will all run backwards:

The steel tsunamis will froth back upwards
And become solid again.
The planes will be pulled out like javelins
And slide backwards, swallowing their vapour trails.

Tomorrow, everyone will be fine.

Tomorrow, everyone who died will come home.
They will sit again at the tables of home
And rejoin life’s fellowship, its snapshots
... read more

Jeffrey Kahrs This interview is taken from a series of conversations I had with John Ash in the spring of 2010. We met several times and always chatted around four or five in the afternoon for an hour to an hour and a half, when the sunlight would come through his windows for a short while. This was the best time to catch him because he usually read and wrote in the early afternoon, sipping on his rakı, so by the time we spoke later he was lubricated but still cogent, which often meant he was feeling contrary. Interviewing John took patience. He hated to be photographed, refused to sell his manuscripts – even though he certainly could have used the money – and rarely acquiesced to even the shortest of interviews. I persevered because I knew his health was more fragile than he was willing to admit and ... read more