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Gaza: The Habit of Catastrophe
Gaza reaches Europe as a daily bulletin of rubble, hunger and diplomatic concern. The disaster remains intolerable. Our attention has learned to live with it. At half past seven Gaza appears on a kitchen screen somewhere in Britain. A road cut through grey rubble. A woman carrying water. A child holding a saucepan with both hands. The presenter lowers her voice by half a tone, as presenters do when suffering has been placed between the weather and the football. Then the programme moves on. No malice is required. The kettle boils, trains are delayed, interest rates remain disagreeable. The catastrophe has entered the furniture of the morning. It is seen,…
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The Evening Is No Longer Ours
Digital work has erased many borders almost without noise: the right to disconnect tries to put a door back where there is now only a screen. The message at 9.47 Dinner is nearly over. One plate remains on the table, a glass beside it, the sort of domestic disorder that usually means the day has finally loosened its collar. Then the telephone vibrates. The message begins with Quick one. Quick things sent at 9.47 in the evening possess a curious elasticity. They may take three minutes, half an hour, or the rest of the night, especially once the mind has returned to the office and refuses to find its coat…
