In the latest issue:

Botanic Macaroni

Steven Shapin

What made the Vikings tick?

Tom Shippey

In the Lab

Rupert Beale

Will there be a Brexit deal?

Anand Menon

Short Cuts: Under New Management

Rory Scothorne


Bridget Alsdorf

Sarah Moss

Blake Morrison

Poem: ‘Country Music’

Ange Mlinko

On the Trail of Garibaldi

Tim Parks

Art Lessons

Peter Campbell

You’ll like it when you get there

Tom Crewe

Early Kermode

Stefan Collini

‘The Vanishing Half’

Joanna Biggs

At the Movies: ‘The Truth’

Michael Wood

The Suitcase: Part Two

Frances Stonor Saunders

Poem: ‘Siri U’

Jorie Graham

Diary: Getting into Esports

John Lanchester

from Last PoemsPaul Muldoon


Not that I care who’s sleeping with whom
now she’s had her womb
removed, now it lies in its own glar
like the last beetroot in the pickle-jar.


I would have it, were I bold,
without relish, my own lightly-broiled
heart on the side.


I would be happy in the knowledge
that as I laboured up the no-through-road
towards your cottage
you ran to meet me. Your long white shift,
its spray of honesty and thrift.


Ours would be a worldly wisdom, heavensent;
the wisdom before the event.

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