London Review of Books
The London Review of Books (LRB) is a UK-based publication that features literary essays. It comes out every two weeks.
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Articles
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2 weeks ago |
lrb.co.uk | Gazelle Mba
William Ansah Sessarakoo’s father, John Corrantee of Annamaboe, on the Gold Coast, was a member of the Fante ruling family and a prominent merchant, well known in the interior and among European slave traders. In order to strengthen ties with his European business partners, and to give his heirs an advantage over their countrymen, Corrantee sent one of his sons to be educated in France and another – Sessarakoo – in England. Sessarakoo was about eleven when he left Africa in 1747.
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2 weeks ago |
lrb.co.uk | Liam Shaw
The pain of toothache arrives long after the damage has been done. The process begins when bacteria in the mouth turn sugars from our food into acid, which etches the tooth’s enamel, allowing the bacteria to penetrate further. Only when they hit the nerve bundles at the tooth’s pulpy core does the sufferer become aware – all too painfully aware – of their predicament. Dental pain comes in pulsing waves, seemingly synchronised with every beat of the heart.
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2 weeks ago |
lrb.co.uk | Dani Garavelli
One afternoon last year I walked up a steep incline from Applecross Basin on the Forth and Clyde Canal, stopped under the second pylon I came to and looked out over the monochrome skyscape. I had been told that this was the spot where Duncan Thaw, the protagonist of Books One and Two of Alasdair Gray’s Lanark, utters his most famous lines.
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2 weeks ago |
lrb.co.uk | James Vincent
Several years ago at a party I met a man who claimed that he navigated London using a compass. Fed up of following directions on his phone, he had bought a handsome, waterproof instrument and fixed it to the handlebars of his bike. Before setting off he would check the address of his destination and take a bearing; then he would wend his way through street and alley. Doing this had, he claimed, reoriented him in a city made unfamiliar through use.
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2 weeks ago |
lrb.co.uk | Patrick Cockburn
In the late morning of 30 April 1980, I left my flat at 90 Westbourne Terrace, near Paddington Station, to walk across Kensington Gardens to the Iranian embassy on Princes Gate. I wanted a visa to visit Iran, where the US raid to rescue staff held hostage in its embassy in Tehran had failed disastrously a few days earlier.
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