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

DaytripAnne Rouse

We’d left the cameras in the Hertz
But made St P.’s for the tourist Passion.
I knew one of the trio: permapressed, a little weary
This is what he did on his vacations.
A few bearded heads bled from the corbels.
We walked by the pleated steps of a temple
In whose maw someone was being tried with flame.

We took in the long galleria before lunch.
Sloan made some remark about art being vox populi.
I sent him back to the Excelsior with a flea in his ear.
The roofs stretched out, pale in the heat and peaceable.
Your shoulder touched mine. I could tell you were moved.
The wine and the drowse of pigeons dismissed
Any rancour between us. Rested we’d be as good as gold.

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