Geoff Dyer

‘Something’s happened to my eye,’ I called out to my wife. She was in the bedroom but she too had semi-disappeared. I could see half of her body but her face had gone. I thumped myself lightly on the side of the head as if that might knock everything back into place, dislodge the opaque filter that had come between me – though even the idea of there being a me had become less certain than usual – and the world. I was getting confused as I tried to make sense of this insubstantial world in which things were and were not.

I didn’t make it to the huge Garry Winogrand retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco but if the very large catalogue is anything to go by the show was obviously … not nearly big enough!* How could it have been? Winogrand is inexhaustible. There’s probably more to look at in a Winogrand photo than in one by anyone else (part of the attraction of a...

Richard Ford’s narrator, Frank Bascombe, quit serious writing to become a sports-writer. This was the making of Ford. It wasn’t until he became Bascombe, the sportswriter, that Ford turned himself into a major novelist.