Where would any writer be without a room of their own?
If you seek out the home of an admired writer, you might find, as with Ernest Hemingway’s house in Havana,…
Toy boy: Machines Like Me, by Ian McEwan, reviewed
What kind of loyalty do we owe a robot we’ve paid for — one who exhibits a convincingly human kind…
A friendship in flux: Normal People, by Sally Rooney, reviewed
‘Marianne had the sense that her real life was happening somewhere very far away, happening without her, and she didn’t…
For Julian Barnes, the only story is a love story — and it’s inevitably sad
The story, as it emerges, feels both familiar and inevitable. A bored 19-year-old student, on his university holidays in mid-century…
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‘I’ve been made Impermanent Secretary.’
‘We’re here about the superforecaster job.’
‘I can’t get on the housing ladder.’
Narcissus feels outnumbered
‘He used to be just a manspreader.’
‘Oh no! What have I tweeted..?’
‘Yes, you could say we’re self-isolating.’
‘And let’s all try to be a little bit kinder.’
‘Poor Rishi Sunak — he has four houses to worry about.’