It may be incorrect to say that Primo Levi was a chemist before he was a writer, but possibly no other writer has ever owed more to his or her other profession than he. Not just life, in the literal sense of surviving the Lager, then later the vocation to write in order to bear witness of those atrocities, but a worldview: a method for understanding both chemistry and writing as meaning-making activities.
The Syriza victory has been won by years of hard campaigning across the country by people who never expected to be close to power, much less take it, and the night is theirs. But, ah, there’s a buzz to a capital city, especially a focused one like Athens, where the world has come to watch, with Podemos members stumbling past on Syntagma square while Channel Four records a newsbite at the bar of the Plaza Hotel and in the cigar bar of the Grande Bretagne a financial trader tells you: ‘Syriza may or may not be good for Greece, but they’ll be great for Europe.’ Wonderful days …
A man walks into a gallery and punches a Monet. And you laugh. I mean, I did. Quite frankly it sounds like a joke.
Marty Hiatt is a Melbournite. Before realising he was a poet he erroneously wrote a novel. It ends badly. He also translates and occasionally writes criticism. He is the author of the chapbooks Rook’s Lair on a Lever (2012), portfolio of nothing file of cream (2013), and festivalize this (2014), which he put out himself with Bulky News Press.
General Practice. It used to be a dirty word among residents at the hospital. Everybody wanted to be a cardiologist or a neurosurgeon. It was more exciting to burr a hole into a patient’s skull or unplug their artery with a tiny balloon than to sit behind a desk and listen to their problems.