It’s a survival mechanism, especially as someone with depression and anxiety, to try to ignore and normalize the dehumanizing experiences I have to move through in order to live. If I were to allow myself to be bothered by quotidian microaggressions and invalidations and othering, I’d maybe never leave the house.
Some writers map their sentences metrically, marking the stressed and unstressed syllables with scansion marks as if notating a musical score. Some even work out the stresses before they fill in the words. The rest of us just have a foggy sense that a sentence needs an extra beat. But we still know that a sentence is not just what it says but how it says it.
The notion that novelists should be solitary creators has long been deeply ingrained. More than twenty years ago, a group of Italian men set out to debunk that idea.
La nomination de Tristan Nitot servira d'abord à redorer le blason de Qwant dans la presse et les médias, mais également à éliminer de la direction de l'entreprise la seule personne susceptible d'essayer de pouvoir tenir tête à Léandri.
« Nitot est tout sauf un administratif ou un opérationnel : c'est un speaker, hors sol et totalement sous la coupe de Léandri. Son rôle : danser devant les journalistes, nu s'il le faut. »
Here, Dugan and Fabbre share portraits and words from 12 of the 88 people they connected with along the way.
There are plenty of well-documented reasons to distrust Instagram — the platform where one is never not branding, never not making Facebook money, never not giving Facebook one’s data — but most unnerving are the ways in which it has led me to distrust myself. After countless adventures through the black hole, my propensity to share, perform, and entertain has melded with a desire far more cynical: to be liked, quantifiably, for an idealized version of myself, at a rate not possible even ten years ago.