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

The Word from Wuhan

Wang Xiuying


The sea inspects its
minutiae, rotating with an equal
indulgence plastic, bladder wrack, eel-grass
rejects nefarious
oil-slicks, birling them up to the selvedge of
high tide, relinquishing coral
topaz, amber, jade; resumes its proper office
of rolling dead sailors, cold engines
over and over in its green
looms, with the nonchalance of
neutrality; it observes
at one remove the blistering
shipwreck, the shot face; like Switzerland,
never taking sides in important
quarrels; but revolving with an impartial
forbearance Seemann and matelot
the bones of Kapitanleutnant and Commander
crafting them with a lapidary
talent, as it crafts other

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