Topic

history

A collection of 8 issues

Provenance

The dealer has photographed it against a white wall and given it the caption: Norwegian, a maker, a year, a chair built for lying back, for going under. When bare rooms were the fashion I thought it hideous. Now it is the kind of thing people collect. I knew it

#37. Transit Passage.

In another life, the villains seemed legible. On 4 July 2019, a frigate detained an Iranian tanker off Gibraltar at the United States' request. The Iranians cited piracy. The British cited Syria. Both filed the correct paperwork. A fortnight later, Iran boarded a British vessel in the strait. Same

#36. Ratio Sufficiens.

The floor is eighteen. The trapdoor, older – there since 1940, survived the carnations, asks only for sufficient reason. A colleague of the man who hung it has requested three of him, in bronze, at street level. He observes it, on Sundays. Speaks, with much feeling, about the Roma and their

April/October

for W.B., honoured on his birthday 23 October 2025 I. It was October, but they sang like April. Their voices wavered – age inside the strain. A red carnation pinned to each lapel. A fado, then a harvest song – off-plane. Born under watch, he crossed a darker path – a

The Elections are Punctual.

The world has not entered a new chapter. It has remembered an old one. Power has changed clothes. This season: cruelty in neutral tones. Someone is always explaining why this is not the same as last time. The clever say polycrisis. The tired say it was always like this. The

Drunk Pelicans and Iberian Oddities

Dispatches from Kallaikoi land – where even the sea is conscripted, and history clings to the asphalt. I went sailing off the north coast, where the Kallaikoi still speak. But the water had been conscripted – yellow Canadairs: low-flying, with the grace of drunk pelicans and the moral authority of hazard

#12. For Francis.

The shepherd went barefoot more often than they expected. He did not raise his voice. He folded his hands in ways that made power nervous. The shoes of the fisherman were left at the door. He wore silence like cloth – not always clean, but never stiff. When he walked into

Glitch

If we were war, we’d call it necessary. We’d speak of strategy, flags, lines drawn. We’d praise discipline, honour the dead, forget the fire. If we were famine, we’d call it balance – a long lesson, a reckoning. The hungry must learn. If we were cancer, we’

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