Liam Harrison | Tolka, Web Only, April 2022 Rob Doyle’s latest book, Autobibliography (2021), originated from an Irish Times book column, where he was asked to write once a week throughout 2019 about a pre-twenty-first-century work of literature, at no more than 340 words per book. He describes it as ‘the book chat equivalent of haiku condensation’. The other half of Autobibliography is a mirror text of sorts, written during lockdown in 2020, and are reflections upon these reflections on books, spanning many different kinds of writing, including memoir, anecdotes, travelogue and other, less categorisable forms. Doyle is the author of the short-story collection This Is the Ritual (2016), as well as the novels Threshold (2020) and Here are the Young Men (2014), which has recently been made into a film. Liam Harrison (LH): What was the experience of writing the shadowy half of Autobibliography, which came after writing your...

The Hanged Man I associate the tarot with my early teenage years, a particularly disempowered time when there was nothing to do but when every moment was saturated with an indefinable yearning. At fourteen, I couldn’t even get a job as a lounge girl in the local pub, the means by which most of my friends gained some independence, working there after school and sneaking drinks with the barmen after closing. I wandered around town with my printed-out CVs, dropping them in front of managers who binned them as soon as I left the shop. In those days, time stretched and warped around us. We were waiting for something external to come and change our lives. The tarot promised us a message from the beyond. The Hanged Man smiles as he hangs upside down. I often drew this card as a teenager, and his expression troubled me. That (ironic?) smile...

Walter Siti | Translated by Brian Robert Moore | Tolka Issue Five, December 2023 First came the disappointment of Castro, in the sense of San Francisco. My friend who teaches at Stanford got a house just a few blocks from the famously gay-majority neighborhood – a beautiful two-storey place, with a sloping roof and uncultivated garden, separated only by a hill, and by a couple of traffic lights, from the Elysium I dreamed of in my youth, that miraculous quadrangle where powerful, half-naked athletes strolled around, kissing each other. The most beautiful ones made love the most and have therefore died; now there’s only an occasional old bodybuilder in overalls, a sick bison with a bottle of milk in hand, along the boulevard where small-town fairies walk looking lost like tourists on Via Veneto. In Stanford’s Andalusian alcazar, Japanese couples go to get married on Sunday, while at the foul-smelling...

Brian Dillon | Tolka, Issue One, May 2021 I was fifteen years old when it first appeared. I’d cycled to school as usual, survived a flummoxing maths lesson without shame, settled into the day’s second period and opened my science textbook, when I found I could not see straight. I blinked hard at the page; something remained in the way. I tried to get the object in focus, the better to banish it, but it would not resolve. The thing was not exactly there, no blurred patch or dark hole in space, instead pure absence, as if one side of reality had simply dropped away. I recall thinking that whatever this was, it would be hard to put into words. I looked up from the book and there the nothing was still, obscuring several classmates, half the blackboard and an array of chemistry equipment on the teacher’s desk. Surely I...