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

Anti-ClimaxJohn Gurney

Ferenczi wrote in 1938
that acts preparatory to coitus
all served in different ways to duplicate
the narcissistic self. The syllabus
of kissing, stroking, biting and the rest
facilitates the loss of boundaries
between the different partners and divests
the woman of her terror. Now your bliss-
equipment is discarded, and our clothes
are heaped in different tumuli, my male
decision falters. Suddenly I loathe
to make the deep manoeuvre. Something fails.
Flaccid, like some ludicrous buffoon,
I stare up at the flash-flask of the moon.

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