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Alan Bennett

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Pankaj Mishra

Short Cuts: John Bolton’s Unwitting Usefulness

Mattathias Schwartz

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Keith Thomas

Mrs Oliphant

Tom Crewe

Tippett’s Knack

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At Tate Modern: Steve McQueen

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Churchill’s Cook

Rosemary Hill

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Ange Mlinko

On Dorothea Lange

Joanna Biggs

Paid to Race

Jon Day

Poem: ‘Traveller’s Tales: Chapter 90’

August Kleinzahler

The Soho Alphabet

Andrew O’Hagan

Old Tunes

Stephen Sedley

Victor Serge’s Defective Bolshevism

Tariq Ali

The Murdrous Machiavel

Erin Maglaque

Diary: Insane after coronavirus?

Patricia Lockwood


What fever is
Burning under the shrunk turf of our days?
The sky is dark with winter, but what rises
Smokily from the heap distinctly says:
Here is fire: and yet a thousand ways

Promises chill.
A vast uneasiness shifts in the air.
No one can name it, and whatever ill
It brings forebodingly cannot declare
Itself. Is then nothing but nothing there?

Nothing perhaps
Is what it is. Evil walks up and down,
Prince of this world, emptying the future’s paps.
What drains the mind will soon empty the town.
The smiling earth now shrivels to a frown.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.


Vol. 12 No. 13 · 12 July 1990

I am always delighted to find a poem or article on your pages by C.H. Sisson (LRB, 10 May), but why not tell those of your readers who still might be dummies that Sisson is the author of one of the great unappreciated books of the 20th century, Christopher Homm? Only mildly fanfared, Christopher Homm is not a mild book but, in purest classical English, a savage and loving account of working-class life told backwards from death to the moment of Christopher’s birth when, ‘crouched in his blindness’, he is about to set out on the road to Torrington Street (where he dies in the opening sentence of the book), ‘and if he had known how bitter the journey was to be he would not have come’. In spite of all that, this is a very funny book; some keep it under their pillows at night, others toss it out closed windows.

The arrival of this – and I usually use the word very advisedly – masterpiece in my own life was properly apocalyptic. I was standing in a small but respectable public library in upstate New York searching the S’s for a mystery I had not read when this small stiff-covered paperback done up in red and yellow suddenly fell to my feet and, as I stooped to pick it up, lo, angels began to sing, and so I opened and began to read: ‘He was a pattern of amiability when he fell flat onto the gravel.’ Let fan clubs spring up from Mogadishu to Stockholm.

Saral Waldorf
Birmingham, Alabama

send letters to

The Editor
London Review of Books
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

Please include name, address and a telephone number

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