Clive James is dying. He’s been dying for a while, but probably for not too much longer. He’s rarely out of the house now, except to see the doctor or go to the hospital, but he’s still writing. The Reports of My Death column in the Guardian is a weekly column that brings his customary insight and wit to things on his mind these days—now often to do with watching a lot of TV or Netflix, which is all he can manage. For the TLS he recently read “Anchorage International,” a poem about dying. His voice is getting weaker, but it’s still worth hearing.