Eponine Howarth is co-editor-in-chief of La Piccioletta Barca.
Now our faces fall off, everything rings false, houses sink in black sap and there are a thousand horses beneath...
there are so many lonely people who seem to have lost pieces of themselves there are so many pieces of people who...
The situation in Argentina is absolutely urgent. The political measures on culture are devastating.
idea for a film where everyone cries all the time
He’s got fifteen minutes left, so he hurries. He feels like taking an ice-cold shower and he also feels like drinking...
I wish I had the patience for long hair
There’s a beginning and then many beginnings
Every morning when he puts a first foot on the ground he gathers
i tap my foot for joy to rise
I wanted to swallow the sun, absorb desired bodies, hold the sea in my gaze without ever mourning its shores.
The silence of the sea roars an infinite judgement
I came to Kathmandu some 20 years back from a small village in eastern Nepal.
Dear reader, be warned, the story I am about to tell puts you at risk of the same evil which inhabits me.
a blue tunnel / like an igloo in the middle of the storm / the lights flicker
Why an anthology of translations of the Harlem renaissance?
The mechanism involves reality, but the outcome is a construction of the imagination...
secretly you disapprove of odd numbers; they remind you of the wickedness of children who have fits around sharing.
No poems today only more “grinding” stone.
I feared... not the great love.
I started writing poetry when I was 16 or 17.
They sit under the mulberry tree and converse without chattering ...
When i crush an ant without meaning to i look for all the others and kill them ...
[The] atrocious academic style was bleeding over. I mean, the PhD dissertation is the world’s worst genre.
I am here in the world
There is no more dreadful punishment ...
The rain is expected to pass. The winds are expected to arrive. It is hoped. It is said. For love of silence ...
Life short or long, everything we live is reduced to a grey residue in memory. From the old journeys remain...
‘Y en el juego angustioso de un espejo frente a otro cae mi voz y mi voz que madura y mi voz quemadura...
I recently told Nacho, the editor of Paraphrasis, that I would engage in the translation of a painting. I have long...
I wouldn’t exactly say that Rawls is my muse.
Poems by Jacques Prévert translated by E.H.
Cultivating a garden for a prolonged period of time and subsequently ruining it is frustrating.
The very act of remembering can change memories. Both tucking away an old memory or building a new one...
I became Umberto Eco’s Model Reader for a week. This was neither an easy decision, nor a simple task.
We punctuate a life, as we punctuate a story, or a poem. It’s the art of cutting, pacing, harnessing, detaching...
In France, every new edition of the dictionary Le Petit Larousse removes around five hundred words.
