Under Cover: The Temporal Edition

It’s been a while since we’ve done one of these posts—what we editors are reading this week:

Carlea: Dino Buzzati, “The Time Machine,” on Electric Literature’s Recommended Reading.

At the foot of the transmitting antenna that rose in the public garden, precisely at noon, Stoermer announced that from that moment on in Diacosia men and women would age exactly one-half as slowly as before. The antenna emitted a very soft hum, which was, moreover, pleasing to the ear. In the beginning, no one noticed the altered conditions. Only toward evening did some feel a kind of lethargy, as if they were being held back. Very soon they started to talk, walk, chew with their usual composure. The tension of life slackened. Everything required greater effort.

LiAnn: Alan Lightman, Einstein’s Dreams.

If one visits a city in spring, one sees another wondrous sight. For in springtime the populace become sick of the order in their lives. In spring, people furiously lay waste to their houses. They sweep in dirt, smash chairs, break windows. On Aarbergergasse, or any residential avenue in spring, one hears the sounds of broken glass, shouting, howling, laughter. In spring, people meet at unarranged times, burn their appointment books, throw away their watches ym, drink through the night. This hysterical abandon continues until summer, when people regain their senses and return to order.

Susan: Kazuo Ishiguro, “Cellists,” from his collection Nocturnes.

She had indicated a polished upright chair carefully placed in the centre of the room, so he sat down on it and unpacked his cello. Rather disconcertingly, she sat herself in front of one of the big windows so he could see her almost exactly in profile, and she continued to stare into the space before her all the time he tuned up. Her posture didn’t alter as he began to play, and when he came to the end of his first piece, she didn’t say a word. So he moved quickly to another piece, and then another. A half-hour went by, then a whole hour.

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