Jean Frémon: ‘Around 1640, in Amsterdam, a ship’s chandler, who had become rich through the development of shipping companies, commissioned a portrait of his wife from a reputed local painter. ‘You must paint her as she is because this is how I love her’, the merchant had advised.’

Ian Seed: ‘Another day over, he walked down the steps into the metro at Piazza Duomo. It had been raining and there was a smell of damp clothes, mingled with a more distant odour of sweat. People hurrying home. Not that Martin was in any rush.’

Steve Xerri: ‘there’s a rare deliciousness
to setting foot where no others may go,
to walking without being bumped against
or tasting someone’s breath in your mouth’

Stephen Nelson: ‘It’s like a museum of mud-stuck bicycles in my bedroom, which is really a dysfunctional paddy field. French soldiers are running around in a panic.’

K.B. Ballentine: ‘Branches twist in February’s wind,
rain usurped by snow,
dew turning into crystalled coins.’

Jenni Daiches: ‘She reached for the banister. Pain burned her chest. Gripped the banister. Slowly, slowly pulled herself to her feet. Christ almighty. She started to shiver. Shock. Her eyes refused to focus.’