Cirrus@Austlit

'“The day after I tried to kill my mother, I tossed some clothes, a pair of hiking boots, a baseball cap and a few toiletries into my backpack, and left at dawn.” So begins Nigel Featherstone’s My Heart Is a Little Wild Thing. It is swiftly apparent, however, that the protagonist, Patrick, is not really a Camus-esque matricidal sociopath but rather a repressed, middle-aged gay man who is increasingly coming to resent his elderly mother, for whom he has primary caring responsibilities.' (Introduction)

Sylvia Plath’s grave sits atop a very steep hill in the English village of Heptonstall. Plath’s gravestone records her name as “Sylvia Plath Hughes”. The “Hughes” lettering appears noticeably duller, as if scratched away by inkless pens or keys. And this is precisely the case. Every year packs of visitors, usually women, make the pilgrimage to Heptonstall to pay tribute to Plath and to desecrate the name of the man who is known to have desecrated her. Improvised awls lie around the grave.' (Introduction)