In the latest issue:

An Ordinary Woman

Alan Bennett

Anglo-America Loses its Grip

Pankaj Mishra

Short Cuts: John Bolton’s Unwitting Usefulness

Mattathias Schwartz

Smells of Hell

Keith Thomas

Mrs Oliphant

Tom Crewe

Tippett’s Knack

Philip Clark

At Tate Modern: Steve McQueen

Colin Grant

Catherine Lacey

Nicole Flattery

Churchill’s Cook

Rosemary Hill

The ‘Batrachomyomachia’

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

Jean CocteauAlan Dixon

Scruffy cyclist in black track shorts
with shammy-leather internal arse patch
designed and executed by mother,
I once saw Jean Cocteau.

Something was going on in a bank, or a place like that
on the Riviera – I think it was Menton.
We were inquisitive and looked through a narrow opening,
and there he was, saying something to his muralist
about shapes on the ceiling. Were they winged horses?
Even at sixteen I knew his face.

My brother is dead, but he took a snap
of a man on scaffolding with an arm raised,
and one of me eating melon on a beach.
It must have been that same day
we discovered the acid triangles of Jacques Villon.

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