In the latest issue:

The American Virus

Eliot Weinberger

The Home Life of Inspector Maigret

John Lanchester

Story: ‘Have a Seat in the Big Black Chair’

Diane Williams

The Last Whale

Colin Burrow

In Beijing

Long Ling

Princess Margaret and Lady Anne

Rosemary Hill

At the Movies: ‘Arkansas’

Michael Wood

Ruin it your own way

Susan Pedersen

At Home

Jane Miller

The Ottoman Conundrum

Helen Pfeifer

Poem: ‘Muntjac’

Blake Morrison

Piketty’s Revolution

Geoff Mann

Short Cuts: In Tripoli

Jérôme Tubiana

Coetzee Makes a Leap

Christopher Tayler

At Auckland Castle: Francisco de Zurbarán

Nicola Jennings

Drain the Swamps

Steven Shapin

Diary: In the Isolation Room

Nicholas Spice

The SentenceDonald Hall
Close
Close

  Just after I turned nine,
my great-aunt Jennie died of cancer.
  At the funeral, her brother
George felt a pain in his back
  and four months later
we buried him. Put to bed late, after
  the funeral reunion
with its straight-faced family jokes,
  I lay awake, repeating
a sentence over and over
  in my head: It was as if
I read it in a book: ‘Then, when
  he was only nine
years old, “Death became a reality.”’

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