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


One sentence in English he knew by heart:
‘If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?’
It sounded cheerful; it usually fitted.
He was a writer. He had translated Quo Vadis?
From the English. What else he had done
We never learnt, nor what had been done to him.
Plainly he’d had a number of hard winters
Known choicely as the Cultural Revolution,
Made to clean out latrines, at very least.
If you think that’s a doddle, just the job
For spoilt intellectuals, then go and look at one.
Winter went, spring returned. Just the two seasons.
Once I think he started to say ‘If Spring comes …’
But his English failed him. Or someone was listening.

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