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

Two PoemsAdam Thorpe


The dollardom shore of big Lake Michigan
finds him doing what he did as a boy

by real seas, running alongside them:
the land’s hem stitched, he’d look

back upon a long beach emptied
by twilight (his spoor blurred as if already

old), and turn it to Avalon, or Crusoe’s island.
Even on the edge of Central Africa

he had to change into somewhere else
what they would always be alone with

after the bush-drive; imagining this
not ever seen, not watched, kept

locked from eyes like a schoolgirl’s journal –
older than lungs, earlier even than gill slits

or the hair-like cilia of bivalves, the sea-edge
stroking backwards through deep time

and the blasts of geology, silvering his prints
from laval sand with the stands of palm-trees

cupped from sight by his hand . . . then find,
on the slow walk back, an impress or two

the sweeps of foam had missed: fossils
of some unknown future, or ears listening

through billions of years of hiss for the delicate cry.

Recent Summers

This imminence . . . an English distillation
of lowering hedges, a hammer-weight of heat

on the accomplishing ferns: everything tending
to cataclysm, fiddling while even dawn burns.

We wait: things might get worse (the hearse
ticking by the cemetery gate). The silence of birds

we don’t look up to, now we’re up to things.
The calm freight of clouds too late to count.

Send Letters To:

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

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Read More

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences