Rose Boyt

Rose Boyt is completing her second novel. Her first, Sexual Intercourse, will appear in paperback next May from Minerva.

Can you feel it?

Rose Boyt, 28 September 1989

I began to notice it happening when I was working on the door of the Café de Paris. A new drug called Extasy arrived from New York, Fat Tony started playing some new records from Chicago. That was house music. It was called house music because you could make it in your house – it was supposed to be home-made. It shared the egalitarian gesture of DIY with punk but was no artless three-chord thrash. This was machine music strung out on an electronic pulse. The records were repetitive, sparse, powerful and tuneless, created by DJs using cheap technology, the lyrics limited because there was nothing to say. Extasy induced the same sense of emptiness. As a nation we took the new music to our hearts, distorted it, and called it acid because it sounded weird. Acieeed.

Roses

Stephen Wall, 27 June 1991

Craiglockhart Hydro – an Italianate pile near Edinburgh – opened in 1880, but it figures in literary history because it was taken over as a military hospital in 1916. Wilfred Owen was...

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In Service

Anthony Thwaite, 18 May 1989

There’s an Auden sonnet, written in 1938 as part of the ‘In Time of War’ sequence, in which the setting seems to be a country house where great matters are being discussed: ...

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