‘We’re more alone now, but not completely.’ One morning at the end of February 2021, I exchanged this text with the writer Edurne Portela. It was the day of Almudena Grandes’ funeral in the Cementerio Civil in Madrid. Each from her own conception of literature, we told the other we would kee

Jonás González Vergara was ready to face his therapist. Before receiving the message with the date and the time of his appointment on his 7AP mobile, bought expressly for the occasion, he’d removed all the quilts, bed sheets and towels that were stored in the chest beneath his bed. Here he had b

A white-fleshed delicate taste you hold in your name the thing you love most. Now that’s just so you can read between the waterlines. I think about tonguefish submerged in its name slim like a dark poem hard to catch in the chaos. Won’t you lie down blindside along my riverbed? Since we blend si

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