In the latest issue:

In Quarantine

Erin Maglaque

Après Brexit

Ferdinand Mount

Short Cuts: Springtime for Donald

David Bromwich

Meetings with their Gods

Claire Hall

‘Generation Left’

William Davies

At the North Miami Museum: Alice Paalen Rahon

Mary Ann Caws

Buchan’s Banter

Christopher Tayler

‘American Dirt’

Christian Lorentzen

Fiction and the Age of Lies

Colin Burrow

In Lahore

Tariq Ali


James Lasdun

Rereading Bowen

Tessa Hadley

At the Corner House

Rosemary Hill

William Gibson

Thomas Jones

Poem: ‘Murph & Me’

August Kleinzahler

The Stud File

Kevin Brazil

John Boorman’s Quiet Ending

David Thomson

In Shanghai: The West Bund Museum

John-Paul Stonard

Diary: The Deborah Orr I Knew

Jenny Turner



My father peers into the lit sitting-room
and says, ‘Are you here?’ ... Yes, I am
in one of his cloudy white leather armchairs,
with one foot not too disrespectfully on the table,
reading Horvâth’s Godless Youth. Without another word,
he goes out again, baffling and incommunicable,
the invisible man, dampening any speculation.

Open House

Rawlplugs and polyfilla ... the cheerful,
tamping thump of reggae through the floorboards,

the drawling vowel ‘r’ of Irish or Jamaican English
carrying easily through the heated, excitable air –

as though I lived in a museum without walls.

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