John Rothenstein, son of Sir William Rothenstein, the celebrated portrait painter, was born in 1901, four years after the Tate Gallery had been founded as the national gallery of British art. When Rothenstein took over as its fifth director in 1938, the Tate was in serious trouble: after 1917 when its remit was extended to include the national collection of modern foreign art, the confused dual purpose had placed an intolerable burden on those required to manage an institution still partly controlled by the National Gallery. Furthermore, it had no purchasing budget from the Government and was bound to accept often inappropriate pictures imposed on it by the Royal Academy under the terms of the infamous Chantrey Bequest. 26 years later when Rothenstein retired as Director in 1964, the Tate had acquired a Government grant, escaped the clutches of the National Gallery in 1955, and was firmly established both as the principal collection of modern art in the UK, and the best collection of British art in the world. Yet Rothenstein's career in the art world had never run a smooth course. After a childhood and early professional life dominated by the influence of his father, his curatorial posts in America, Leeds and Sheffield were not without incident, and at times it had looked as if his chosen career would stall. Adrian Clark's thoroughly researched account of the origins and professional life of John Rothenstein, covers his highs and lows and tries to give a balanced view and summary of the achievements of this remarkable human being.

Testing some possibilities and limits of cultural and linguistic exchange, a selection of imitations of Max Jacob follow free improvisations on early Chinese love poems and texts by Persius, Tacitus and Villon. The Eurochants themselves are less translations of specific texts than plurilingual responses to aspects of the European lyric tradition with its characteristic themes of "despair, frustration, yearning" (Michael Riffaterre) that are by turns respectful and irreverent, attentive and oblique, measuring themselves against established forms-most frequently the sonnet-as they distort and resolve them. Taking their cue from Alain Bosquet's reflections on collective suicide, a set of Terminal Preludes responds to projects for "total war" and planetary depredation with fractured syntax, rhythmic insistence and determinedly impure diction.