Isabel Hernández-Gil Crespo

I’m a second-year Philosophy student at Cambridge, originally from Madrid. This gives me one of those rare chances to compare myself to my two literary role models – Tsvetaeva and Nabokov – who, like me, had a habit of nostalgically sliding their native cities and languages into their work. With the former, I also share a methodical yet passionate approach to writing poetry and a tendency to idolize other artists, and with the latter an excessive delight in wordplay. Outside of literature (or is it?) I take an interest in culture and gender studies, and at their intersection with my degree, in aesthetics.


“Je raffole de tout ce qui rampe,” she told Van, her cousin and to-be-paramour. “I’m crazy about everything that crawls.” She was the last fictional love of my late childhood, slowly morphing into bursts of confused and chaotic lust.

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Those who have talked to me within the past few weeks will know that a sudden confrontation with my pessimism about the future of humanity has plunged me into the first instance of what I seriously call an ‘existential crisis.’

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