Somewhere, at some specific moment, someone wrote the very first sentence. Imagine...
Anna Knox reviews On Eating Meat, by Australian food critic and farmer Matthew Evans, and reflects on its implications for New Zealand Farmers
Omani author Jokha Alharthi talks about the challenges she's faced getting her Booker Prize-winning novel Celestial Bodies accepted in the West.
The thing is, I was supposed to have a sea burial but I didn’t. I jumped ship before it happened, in Lyttelton Harbour, New Zealand, 1905, en-route to Rio with a cargo of carcasses and wool.
It's the middle of winter, you said. No one goes north in winter.
Chris McDowall and Tim Denee's We Are Here, the first general atlas of New Zealand to be published in more than 20 years, is a ground-breaking atlas for the internet era and an outstanding success on many levels.
'Fifty years ago,' says Omar, 'No woman covered her face in our region.' He is the second high-ranking Saudi from Azir who has taken pains to communicate this.
In the Saudi Arabian desert it takes time for your eyes to adjust to the light. Slowly you see through the haze: A hill here, a camel there, a thorn bush. A line of sea on the horizon.
When my husband wanted to go overnight tramping for his 40th birthday, along with our two kids and three other families, I was hesitant.
When I lived in Southern California, I knew a guy who would get up at five in the morning to catch the train from the Seventh-day Adventist town of Loma Linda...
It's hard to remember feeling baked like stone in summer. I'm a cicada skin. I shake when I lift the shovel trying to spread the dug-up dirt around, left over from the new plants.
The show is one huge palindrome, with Pound knows how many instances of reflection. Almost every image has a second: shadow, mirror, double.
Alneami's images of people at a theme park in Abha instantly evoke the energy and contradictions of Saudi society.
Put the meta-narrative of repression aside for a moment and the work expands. There is menace and sadness in these images... but there is also joy...
Up the twisted back of the fish, writhing on its hook, to its whacking tail, the waka rocking above. Down below, the magnificent view, the harbour with Rangitoto like a cold grey eye, looks up at the Point where the protest signs have been resting for the night:
At the entrance to the Tuesday Market, the smell of plants is strong. With the mountain air moist and crisp, and the herbs and leaves freshly picked, the fragrances carry far.
The story behind Polhill's regeneration is about as multifaceted and easy to follow as Finnegans Wake without the protagonist.