Passing wounds in different studies of light, scabbed on the vast walls of daughters, the world spins inside itself, as a liquid over the plains, over Holy Lands and sacrificial slabs, over citrus peel and sumac-stained hands, over raised sardine fishing boats built with the nails that crucify father to son.

A fairground fun, a circus troupe in the moments of repose on the dusty road from one town to the next – clowns and jugglers, carnies and freaks. What we are given to read is a pastime from one show to another. What happens on the margins, in the backrooms, during the show? In the Footnotes?... Well, you know what happens. We do.

Excerpt from Ann Quin’s novel Tripticks, introduced by Austin Carder.

Today I begin in earnest. What does it matter that my thoughts are clouded? A light will shine through in the end.

“Imagine an encounter that goes unreported by language.”

“The visitor wanted to create some very special clothing for the special person, like nobody had ever seen.”