‘A dreamy pamphlet, filled with poetry persistently questioning and reinventing its own assertions—narratives untenable in ways that surpass surrealist imagery. Joyful and eerie and propulsive, wielding a gorgeous musicality. Moser is a witty, clever, ineffable writer.’ Susannah Dickey
‘Moser’s voice is both idiosyncratic and without affectation. Her poems have an uncanny way of capturing the baffling rhythms and textures of thought and sensation; each one reads like the linguistic vestige of some small and indescribable fragment of experience.’ Padraig Regan
Manuela Moser’s Last night, the mountain is a breathless game of contradictions: part dream, part discourse; yearning and sardonic; halting and cascading. Its terrain is an Escheresque tapestry of grey skies, crushed velvet mountains, rescue helicopters, sex tapes and sad swimming pools. Full of notes and examples that frame and reframe experience, this pamphlet hones in on the ways we assimilate phenomena, cumulatively asking of what, if anything, we can be sure.