But what if the primary way in which we are unique, and one of the ultimate causes of our remarkable rational and linguistic capabilities, turns out to be the unique way in which we are emotionally drawn to one another and the world? What if humans have become so rational and linguistic because of the very special kind of social way we interact and emote? How might it change our way of understanding ourselves, our relationships with and responsibilities to one another, our fellow animals and our planet if we came to see the foundation of human uniqueness not in our capacity for reason, but in our capacity for empathy? If we realised that we are the very special animal we are because of our very special ways of caring for and about one another – a care that we project into the nonhuman world? The rational animal has used its reason to wreak havoc on the planet and its inhabitants. Could the empathic animal begin to undo some of that harm?
Hands up, who’s rubbish at drawing? Ha! Bet you’re not as bad as me.
For years this rarely bothered me but, like so many of us in the first lockdown, I gloried in previously familiar green city spaces, and longed to record the joy they brought. A quick snap on my phone – destined to join hundreds not looked at again – never quite captured the moment. So I was intrigued to see that Walthamstow-based artist Sharon Drew was running “green sketching” sessions in Epping Forest, on the edge of north London, near her home and mine.
They Say Sarah is an erotic work that explores the dialectics of desire, possession, madness. The “turmoil of the senses” in which the narrator and Sarah live ultimately leads to despair, destruction, death. Today, when so many writers are turning to stories about their upbringings and their political journeys, it is satisfying, now and again, to be shown the darkness that lurks within all of us, the latent itch for reckless passion — and to be reminded that fiction can be made from a purely metaphysical examination of the subterranean drives that govern our lives.
In “I Talk Like a River,” the Canadian poet Jordan Scott recalls his own childhood struggle with stuttering. His episodic narrative, told in a few straightforward sentences per page, accompanied by gorgeous illustrations by Sydney Smith, is an empathetic conversation-starter for families seeking help for a young — or not so young — person who stutters.
When it stops snowing in winter and deep cold arrives to crack the
ice