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Whether men can write women or not is a very popular point of attrition in literary discussions.

I’m displaying a little bit of privilege here (as someone living in a Nordic country), asking you to start a blog with your real name.

The title sounds like an oxymoron: Empathic misanthropy must be self-contradictory, right?

Literature and narratives don’t need a conceptual, artistic conclusion, but physical necessity – the material length of a book, for example – means we sometimes need to put the full stop (the semi-colon, perhaps?)

Dreams are fascinating.

Like a crow, I picked this book up from my local library shelf simply because the intense green color of its cover drew my attention – the drawn crow figure was obviously also intriguing.

We instinctively think of scarcity – the lack of something; a short supply; a shortage – as something bad.

I’ve been writing some short stories in the past few months, and it’s likely I’ll publish them as a volume at some point.

I’m typing these lines listening to an obscure postrock album released not 40, not 30, but less than 20 years ago.

I really like Kōbō Abe – his novel The Box Man is almost insolent in its brilliance.

I’ve read and reviewed Italo Calvino before – Invisible Cities is a masterpiece matched only by If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler.

As I mentioned some time ago, I’m in the process of writing some short stories.

Ironically enough, “postmetal” might be the only term of the title you might be familiar with.

“A bloody masterpiece”.

Humans are very bad at recognizing (and expressing) their needs.

Osamu Dazai is one of the several Japanese authors whose life ended in a suicide – Mishima was another.

No, the title is not a typo.