There is nothing we can do to make normal or “appropriate” the death of a dear friend, or a beloved public figure.
Calpol. It tastes fantastic. Works a treat. Helps me to sleep. All round, it’s a winner. It’s the pre-Calpol debate that bores me.
Felix Martin discusses Flash Boys by the American financial writer Michael Lewis, which examines high-frequency trading (HFT).
With the general election result so uncertain, leadership contenders in the Tories, Labour and the Lib Dems are making themselves known.
An edition of The Reunion reunited cast and crew of Four Weddings and a Funeral, 20 years on.
The debut novels of two Tartan Beebists, whose hearts clearly belong in Scotland despite years of working in Westminster.
The Countess Russell drew up a petition to prevent Blackfriars Theatre from opening and to drive the dramatist and his wretched troupe from her turf.
Adam Foulds on a vanished world of natural wonders and cyclical labour.
A new book examines the cultural history of canvases that have the artist as their subject.
Disaster strikes the British seaside in a gripping new short story by the author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.
But consigning events to history should not preclude the need for apology for ancient wrongs: they can help heal rifts.
A previously unpublished novella shows the playwright struggling to escape the influence of Joyce.
Amanda Craig rounds up the best new offerings for young people.
Television dramas are so gloomy lately that you can barely make anything out. “Pass me the night-vision goggles!” you think, as you squint at the screen.
The Norwegian autobiographical author writes a spring reflection especially for the New Statesman.
The double Man Booker-winning novelist Hilary Mantel on writing for the stage, finishing her Tudor trilogy – and the perils of being a woman in the public eye.
Lukas Moodysson, director of Lilya 4-Eva and Container talks about his new (and most accomplished) film We Are the Best! in which three Stockholm teenagers form a punk bank.
My friend Emma worships Wes Anderson; I can’t stand him – so we were looking forward to a good row after The Grand Budapest Hotel.
The response of some Labour MPs to Javid’s promotion was idiotic.
Snap, crackle and pop is really this: the snap of our bones on the wheel of fate, the crackle of our skins in the fires of damnation, and the apoptosis that awaits our mortal cells.
This culinary powerhouse is so easy to prepare that to accuse someone of not being able to boil one is a grave insult.
Once Wigan scored, though, it was a different story: the affable familes were suddenly full of hate and fury.
On the scale of outrages this ranks fairly low but I am driven to complain by a desire for simplicity and purity.
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