Noreen Masud’s memoir, A Flat Place, explores the flatlands of Britain, as well as reflecting on her upbringing in Pakistan and Scotland, through a mixture of literary criticism and anti-romantic nature writing. A Flat Place contains stories of brutality, the patriarchy, colonial violence and the erasure of histories of people of colour. Noreen’s experience of living with what she hesitantly defines as complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (c-PTSD) is a many-layered account of childhood trauma with no single cause or event. Noreen describes how, along with her siblings and mother, she was confined by her father inside their house, and how she found solace in glimpses of her first flat place, open fields near where she lived in Lahore as a child: I waited, every morning, as the dawn mists rose over Lahore, for the car to round the corner and open out on to those fields. And the flat...

In Italy, no author is as commonly associated with auto-fiction – or with the murky limbo that exists between fiction and non-fiction – as Walter Siti. Through his first three novels, which formed a ‘fake autobiography’ culminating with Paradise Overload (Troppi paradisi) in 2006, Siti proved that the self can be as effective a means as any for probing the obsessions, ills and ecstasies that characterise contemporary Western society. Even as the figure of Walter Siti has moved into a secondary role in much of his writing, his novels have continued to meld an almost investigative rigor with emotional depth and a uniquely propulsive style. By portraying and deconstructing contemporary Italy from the inside, Siti’s writing has captured how no facet of modern life – even, or especially, love and sex – can exist detached from macro systems of money, media and power. Paradise Overload, in particular, is often cited...

We were young and given over to certain clichés of youth. We had recently discovered drugs and drug music and drug culture, and now, with no college and nothing else to make us feel special, we leaned hard into the stoner vibes. Our heroes were the usual suspects, Jim Morrison, Hunter S Thompson, Jack Kerouac, William Burroughs, Jimi Hendrix, William Blake, Charles Bukowski, et cetera. These were our guys. They were all guys. It was 2004 and we felt absolutely no compunction to cultivate any interest in female artists. We were eighteen-year-old boys; feminism was a joke to us. But to be fair, we did love Janis Joplin, and all she had to do to get our attention was drink herself to death.

Mollie leaned over the kitchen sink and picked up a little glass bottle from the windowsill. She measured three drops into the plastic cap and showed me – it was viscous, dark brown – then she added a splash of water from the cold tap, and swirled, and held it out again so that I could see how the substance had turned – in a fraction of a second, in a spontaneous display of alchemy – so pale and cloudy that it resembled weak, milky tea. Then she knocked it down her throat like a shot, twisted her face in disgust and listed the names of the supplements she was taking to sustain her immune system. The sun was high above Mollie’s cabin. Light reached in the kitchen window and across the sink, fingered the rug in front of the log stove and stopped. It was a peculiarly hot afternoon...