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A chipped teacup, warmed in my hands, Is love when you stir in the honey, unasked,

My memoirs of 2025, do you know I want to forget you?

I never considered reading authors’ letters. “How can personal letters be considered literature?”–I thought.

If you have ever carried a tote bag to a coffee shop solely to place it on the table next to a freshly prepared matcha latte, you already know the assignment. Reading, in the modern era, isn’t really about “reading” or enjoying a story—it is about signaling. It is about letting the person seated at the next table know that while you could be doomscrolling TikTok, you choose to instead engage with a higher form of brain simulation.

It’s very likely that Substack will become the “drawing room” of intellectuals and creative elites.

This year’s Booker Prize will be announced on November 10 in a ceremony that will be broadcast live on BBC Radio 4 and livestreamed on Booker Prize’s social channels.

I wake up to the smell of coral jasmine Those mushrooms in my garden of dreams.

Each year, one writer contributes a text that will remain unpublished and unread until 2114.