In the latest issue:

Loathed by Huysmans

Julian Barnes

Too early or too late?

David Runciman

Short Cuts: Five Victorian Marriages

Tom Crewe

Society as a Broadband Network

William Davies

Indefinite Lent

Thomas Jones

In 1348

James Meek

The House of York

John Guy

At the Movies: Pasolini’s ‘Teorema’

Michael Wood

Secrets are like sex

Neal Ascherson

Poem: ‘The Bannisters’

Paul Muldoon

Clarice Lispector

Rivka Galchen

Marius Petipa

Simon Morrison

At the Foundling Museum: ‘Portraying Pregnancy’

Joanne O’Leary

Caroline Gordon v. Flannery O’Connor

Rupert Thomson

Revism

Joe Dunthorne

Poem: ‘The Reach of the Sea’

Maureen N. McLane

Diary: Where water used to be

Rosa Lyster

How to set up an ICU

Lana Spawls

The HuntersJamie McKendrick
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We that have been hunting all the day
are mighty tired, our hair is dank with sweat
and by our hunting helmets plastered flat.

As days of hunting go, this must be counted
a good day: the horns blew loud and the dogs
barked hard as though they knew it was more for them

than us we went out hunting the wild beast
all day – so they could teach him just how tame
they were, and how wrong to think that being dogs

had taken the edge off their appetite
for sport. We that have been hunting all the day
will keep on hunting through the night

for finer creatures than the forests hide,
through forests deeper than the ones of day.

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