Francesca Peacock

What are we missing out on in our endless pursuit of productivity?

Why are we so content to minimize and forget the work of translators?

Celebrations of her novel Mrs. Dalloway should be more raucous than they are

It’s a time of nostalgia, of seeking that which is perpetually, unrecoverably lost

The Hurting Kind by Ada Limón and My Grief, The Sun by Sanna Wani reviewed

The gender fiction gap isn’t as modern as we think

We must begrudgingly acknowledge what the author got right

He and the Beats aren’t nearly as good as annoying young men imagine

A new book documents how art emerged out of brutality and socialism

There have always been brilliant books limited to small spaces and situations

It doesn’t need to die; it just needs to find a life beyond its author

She was a woman to whom words mattered, whether writing about the Sixties gone wrong or California identity