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

A White TigerFrederick Seidel
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The golden light is white.
It is the colour of moonlight in the middle of the night
If you suddenly wake and you are a child
In the forest and the wild
Animals all around you are sleeping.
You are in your bed and you are weeping
For no reason.
It is because it is tiger season.
The big-game hunters’ guns are banging.
The corpse of a real beauty is hanging
From a tree in the darkness, waiting.
Of course, the Palestinians and the Jews are exaggerating!
The building is not a million storeys high.
The moonlight is not going to die.
The Israelis and the Palestinians are by no means exaggerating.
The carcass is hanging from the darkness, waiting.
The building is a million human stories high.
The moonlight is going to die.
In the corners of your little room,
The large-bore guns go boom boom.
The tigers are field dressed where they fall, who used to roar.
The stomach and lungs are removed with the gore.
Tiger incisors get sold at the store.
Tiger canines ground into powder get sold at the store.
Tiger heart will also restore.
The tigers will end up a tiger skin on the floor.
Especially a rare white tiger is not safe anywhere anymore.
One escaped from the cage when they opened the door.

Rest in fierce peace, Edward, on the far shore.

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