The European Review of Books #10

Black on white, with a glint of copper. And inside: the Mediterranean as a sea between; dreams, and their political life; headaches — human, divine, and artificial. A woman steps in Tangiers; looted libraries whisper their afterlives; strangers write to strangers. What Sweden isn’t; Yugoslav tales of literary theft ascending; an angel is saved — or not — in a broken geography. Eight hours that don’t make a day, and the question of what the West means to the rest.

Books? Review? Europe? A European Review of Books would sound thrice-doomed. And yet here we are. The ERB is made up of the things you'd expect: fiction, essays, poetry, art, and reviews. It contains stuff about Europe and stuff from Europe. Long-form and short-form. But there are also things inside you might not expect to find: pops of colours, 'pearls' of wisdom, multilingual articles, and pages joined together by perforated edges which need to be (gently) torn open with fingers, giving an altogether new reading experience and allowing you to keep track of your progress through the publication.