#emma-hickey

#emma-hickey

Carina Hedlund has visited Ireland over 30 times since 2011, capturing the warmth of the people she meets in the capital's pubs with her camera.

Entering Tracey Emin's retrospective A Second Life at Tate Modern evokes the unsettling sensation of reading someone's personal diary, as her entire body of work reflects intimate experiences.

"I wonder why I wanted to be famous," she muses now, as we sit across from each other in The Pavilion cafe in Cork.

The series centres a community whose visibility has too often been shaped by external gaze rather than self-definition. A 'dyke' is not a singular thing. The community isn't narrow, unified, or clean. It is not only cis lesbians for example. It includes trans masc men, trans femme women, nonbinary people, and bisexuals.

Female friendships have become the bedrock of some great stories in film, TV, and literature, highlighting their enriching and indestructible nature.

Freezing, knock-kneed and shivering in a tartan pleated skirt. A withering bunch of shamrock attached by safety pin to the only green jumper I owned, still damp from its overnight submersion and the splash of holy water from early mass. A grey, damp day, squashed up against a cold metal barrier since early morning, to 'get a good spot', a red line for my father.

Ruins, Child is constantly spliced and refracted, presenting a group of people watching a familiar film of themselves and their elders, while also assessing the beauty of crumbling buildings.

Lying in my bed, I listened to what sounded like a woman screaming outside in the dark. I picked up my pen. A month of living in this Icelandic village and I was still unaccustomed to the impenetrable January gloom and the ferocity of the wind; its propensity to sound sentient. I had started to feel like the island was trying to tell me something, had a story it wanted me to write.

From the outset, in the novel's prologue, Anna tells us she is determined to account for herself and her life. But we are to expect no ordinary narrative, concerned only with actual events, evidence-based or relying on historical data. No, Anna is interested in the climate of the psyche and the vibrations of the soul. Can it be that the very things we cannot quantify or rationalise are what make life meaningful?

I was a smiley, happy child. I've had cerebral palsy since birth, so I've never known any other reality. At three years old I went to a disabled nursery connected to a disabled school, and I remember thinking, Why am I here? At the end of the day, the teacher brought my parents in and said, Rosie should be in a mainstream school.

Trope, POV, backstory, character arc. In the 30 years since I was a student of that benign, pipe-smoking, elbow-patched man of letters Malcolm Bradbury, the private language of creative writing workshops has taken over the world. What writers used to say to small circles of students in an attempt to help them improve their storytelling technique has become a familiar way, often parodic and self-knowing, of interpreting the grand and not-sogrand narratives of our time.

Yiyun Li reads her story 'Calm Sea and Hard Faring,' from the March 9, 2026, issue of the magazine. Li is the author of eight books of fiction, including the novels 'Must I Go' and 'The Book of Goose,' and the story collection 'Wednesday's Child,' which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in 2024.

Research has linked reading for pleasure in childhood to a host of positive educational and socioeconomic outcomes. But now 14 years after the Department for Education, in a more innocent time, commissioned a chunky report on the matter—reading books for pleasure is an activity in crisis. The culprit usually blamed for this falling-off is the smartphone and its many short-term distractions; the mere presence of a smartphone in the room, recent research suggests, has an impact on our ability to concentrate.

Movies like Die My Love, starring Jennifer Lawrence, show an almost logical unravelling of a mum facing modern pressures

The ghost of a previous lover is always a challenge, particularly if you (mistakenly) believe that she's actually dead. This is the unenviable situation for Lily, the protagonist of O'Farrell's second novel, who is swept off her feet by dashing architect Marcus and in short order moves in with him. Lily takes his assurances that her predecessor Sinead is no longer with us to mark a more permanent absence;

Liadan Ní Chuinn was born in Northern Ireland in 1998, the year the Good Friday Agreement ended the Troubles, the decades of violence stemming from England's occupation of Ireland. Other recent fiction about the Troubles-the novels and Trespasses , the TV show Derry Girls (all excellent)-is set firmly in the last century, relegating the violence to history. Ní Chuinn's work does the opposite: Their new book of short stories, Every One Still Her e, is set in contemporary Northern Ireland.

Out today, Woman Down centers on writer Petra Rose, an author who has writer's block and checks into a remote cabin to finish her next book. Petra, who took a hiatus after fans blamed her for a producer's decision to cut a fan-favorite character out of the film adaptation of her book A Terrible Thing, has "learned the hard way what happens when the internet turns on you," a synopsis states.

"She wanted me to photograph the unseen, the unconscious, and this is something I am also very dedicated to," says Agata.

Seeing this remarkable movie reminded me that we cannot look away from real-life tragedies

A girl on the cusp of adolescence gazes down at a book. Her left hand rests against her flushed pink cheeks, while her right clutches the pages, ready to turn to find out what happens next. She has porcelain-like skin and golden hair seemingly full of air, executed in textures that contrast with the scratchy, loose marks that make up her shirt and the book's pages.

You are leaving work, your suit still damp from the morning's downpour, the skin on your palms peeling. You are clutching two supermarket bags, tins of cream soup and tuna knocking against one another. The rain is hard and your anorak is cheap. You are on your way to Stockbridge, to your parents' house, which only your father inhabits now that your mother is gone.

It is the summer of 2019, and Sophie Evans, the reckless protagonist of Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett's unsettling second novel, has arrived on an idyllic island in the Cyclades with her university friends Helena, Iris and Alessia to celebrate Helena's forthcoming marriage. Helena doesn't want it called her hen Like we're dumpy little featherbrains going cluck, cluck, cluck, but all the same, the men including Sophie's curator boyfriend of six years, Greg will not arrive for another five days.

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