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

A DeletionDon Paterson

Ruth, I can’t believe none of them knew;
on the other hand, it’d only take a few
to -ectomise it from the lexicon –
and what brave soul’d report that it had gone?

(Lady: ‘I was pleased to note the lack
of filthy words in your most admirable work.’
Dr Johnson: ‘Yes, indeed Madame;
I’m pleased you took the time to hunt for them.’)

More likely, surely, that they would have missed
that selfish little organ off the list
in pure spite: let us try to picture him,
the lovelorn wretch in the scriptorium,

sobbing in bed, wanking in the cloisters,
all his sour hours, days and weeks spent counting
his disappointments like a paternoster,
or like the fading optimist, his bar-bill mounting
with the broken shells of all his pearlless oysters.

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