The Psychopolitics of the Émigrée Experience: On Reading Milan Kundera’s “Ignorance”

In some rare cases, admiration of a masterpiece is personal. You try to resist the urge to underline every sentence and fold every single page to later return to it, and you become enchanted by the tiniest details across the pages. Milan Kundera’s “Ignorance” became one of these for me.

Breaking Free: Joshua Bassett’s Journey Back from the Brink of Death

“I realized that when you don’t have love for yourself then when other people hate you, it reconfirms the hate you already have for yourself. So you believe them – or when you have shame – you think you are unworthy of love,” Bassett said.

Fashion Forward: Gen Z Politics and the Rise of Thrifting

The sign looked as though someone had taken the sides of several steel shipping containers, painted them with the brightest hue of red known to man, and hoisted them on the walls of an old factory building. “Village DISCOUNT OUTLET” was plastered in white across the building’s steel paneling, each letter appearing as if it had been stolen from a different restaurant sign.

Where Two Worlds Collide: The Visionary Music of Mild High Club and Little Simz

Both Little Simz’s “SIMBI” and Mild High Club’s “Going Going Gone” diverge from the artists’ previous projects, experimenting with eclectic sounds and building upon the work of important artists from older generations.

Charlotte Hughes: On the Retrospective and the Rise of Reactionary Literature

These stories and poems [in Terror House Magazine] mean exactly what they depict: the darkness and violence, desecration, addiction, and afflictions of late capitalism. They offer no analysis or interpretation, which renders the litany of horrors utterly meaningless. There are no hermeneutics or erotics; they offer nothing to see, touch, or feel, consigning the website to the red-pilled universe of suffering.

Part 3: The Size of History

When I was younger, I attributed great size to important places. My grandparents’ condo, for example, was a labyrinth of rooms and towering ceilings. My cousins and I raced through the dark hallways like they were the Catacombs of Paris—stretching for miles, buffering the sound of our sprints and collisions with their sheer enormity.