A collection of prints and enigmatic texts that form a meditation on rural life.

“Brilliant.  Technically stunning and emotionally charged.  The new pastoralism is here!” – Art Scene




A novel of lost and found family, dogs and love.

Venturing  briskly through what is not said, ‘The Unlanguaged’ demonstrates  a proper ‘allegiance to the peripheries’.  The waiting times.  Remaindered  dreams.  Short aeons following the vortex in a coffee cup. The karma of memory reads like a very imaginative  shopping list.  Here is a supple intelligence in play. A sprightly  and welcome  voice in a time of stalled metaphors  and gassy rhetoric.

-Iain Sinclair

…(Nichols) has written a soul-searching meander littered with the bitter – sweetness of his music.  The Untogether is narrated with a Mid-West drawl sharpened by NYC, and generously  seasoned by the author’s more recent stint in rural Wales.  A voice that emanates warmth, his sparse style is punctuated, staccato, with dry wit – discover and re-read.

-New Welsh Review

‘This is not a love story. With this haunting, modernist account of lives struck by loss and threatened by love, Jeb Loy Nichols emerges as a singular voice.’

-John Williams

Nothing To You (extract)


I think of her and the way she stands.  And walks.  And sometimes in the evening dances.  The way she uses her legs.

Do you imagine that I want someone different?  Is that what you think?  That I spend my days reviewing my options?

Thinking of John Clare who died in an asylum.

We argue in a mild way about an old friend.  Someone I admire.  Someone I rarely see.  Who wears handmade shoes.  Often with bright socks.  Scarves too of purple silk.  She finds him tiresome.  The way he just lays around, she says.

Thinking of Robert Walser who, confined to an institution, said, I’m not here to write, I’m here to be mad.  Who also said, I am horrified by the thought that I might attain worldly success.  

I am in a mad house.  I have no knowledge of why I’m shut up. The world seems eager of the opportunity to discomfort one.  Wrote John Clare.

How Do You Do (extract)


This is the way all things begin: loss. 

There are flurries of what, from my uncurtained window, appear to be snow. The goal is to forget more than you remember.  

I tell the conductor I’ve lost my ticket.  The train, crowded, and the day, cold, press in against us.  Passengers stare while I theatrically search my pockets.  I assure him that the ticket has been bought.  I begin to explain how all things begin with loss.  The conductor, weary, issues me a warning.  Don’t even think about making this a habit, is what he says.

The ocean is unavoidable.  It sits grey and unappealing, tiny wisps of white gathering in the cold.  Gulls rattle.  Always the rumble of traffic.  It means nothing to me.  I’m no sailor.  What do I know of boats and main sails and galleons and poop decks?  I’m no Popeye me.  I prefer dry land.  Neither do I like flying or burrowing.




untogetherI need You To Tell me









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