"You can barely choose for choice. You listen to electronically manipulated sounds through headphones, to remove yourself from the luminous commerce of the supermarket aisle. You leave without a purchase.
"You compose voluntarily literate emails, short but careful, and wince, slightly, each time you press the ‘send’ button.
"You try not to step into the supermarket at all. You try to remember to recycle. You try not to repeat yourself. Or to repeat others. This is futile. Vital."
The Quietus is excited to tell you about a rather splendid new collection of short stories, Vertigo of the Modern, which summons fantasies inspired by, or offering a repose from, the real. It’s the story as a space for contemplation, a glimpse of escape. It’s the story as a place of confrontation, flying head on into the modern, and all its super-speeding corners.
“From where you’re standing, with the glare of the overhead strip lighting and the thin patina of dust that’s accumulated on the glass, it’s hard to get a good view inside that cabinet. But it’s worth moving closer and taking a look. Some of our most resonant and popular exhibits are in there. We’re talking prime curios from the Golden Age of Fear; reassuring, dependable worries and anxieties: cancer; faked moonshots; race riots; nuclear war.”
(‘From Where You’re Standing’ by Daniel Spicer)
Vertigo of the Modern is a hand stitched book-zine edited by Hannah Gregory and designed by Andrew Clare, with a cover from AMPLIFIER. It’s being published by Frances May Morgan, while contributors include Everett True, David McNamee, Daniel Trilling, and many more.
“There is a stillness that happens at the point when an invasion becomes an entrenched population. It is the quiet moment where things are at their worst.”
(‘Night’ by Frances Morgan)
The first copies of the book will be sold at the Handmade & Bound book fair in London this Sunday. For more information including directions, click here, while you can also pre-order a copy by sending an email to vertigoofthemodern@googlemail.com.
“Sometimes I draw staircases fit for encircling hallways shrouded in shadow and cascading dust. Sometimes I sketch foldaway steps, or stairs with space for storage, wherein whole libraries could rest. I imagine the commotion of well-heeled boots continuing above the wooden slats, their owners unaware of close proximity to tales of glittering transitions…”
(‘Silent Steps’ by Hannah Gregory)
