1967
We are in a square hall lined on one side with elongated Victorian windows, their mean square buckled panes running with condensation. The windows are set high in the wall, cunningly designed to prevent inattentive schoolchildren from looking outside. Not that there's much to see; just flat, barren countryside where sparse clumps of stunted trees keel to and fro in the force of the wind, like shrivelled old, drunk men coming home from the pub.
...



So about two years ago, I sat down to write a novel. I was deep into a wonderfully clarifying kind of rage.



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