The London Review of Books turned forty this year. For some twenty of those forty years I have been a subscriber—not just a subscriber, but the kind of fanatic who reads every issue cover to cover. The word “review” doesn’t quite capture the breadth of the articles in the LRB. Rather, the book under consideration is the launchpad for an extended essay on its subject, which might be the mechanics of high frequency trading or the nature of octopus consciousness …
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