Sarah Krasnostein: The Trauma Cleaner

The backyard is vast. A Hills hoist is stuck like a cocktail umbrella in the dead centre of the dead lawn; debris everywhere in the spongy yellow grass. Despite it being the end of summer, the bushes and trees along the fence line are devoid of leaves. An entropic mound of trash and broken furniture oozes towards the house from the far corner of the yard. This is where Kim deposited the stuff that was crowded up to the ceiling inside the house during the last inspection. (17)

A really nasty woman, that Corelli

I never married because there was no need.  I have three pets at home which answer the same purpose. I have a dog which growls all morning, a parrot which swears all afternoon and a cat which comes home late at night.  (Marie Corelli)

The Box Of Stars

The Box Of Stars: A Practical Guide To The Night Sky And To Its Myths And Legends (Catherine Tennant)

White Rabbit Syndrome: new therapy approaches

A damned talented elephant

Just the story, stoopid?

Following the announcement from Arts Council England that sales of literary fiction are plummeting, it is suggested that arts subsidies be deployed to help writers survive. I have another idea. They should write better books.

Eric Ambler: Cause For Alarm

Alone, not lonely

The one and only Flann O’Brien

 

We all go to bed for a week every month. Every single man, woman and child in the country. Cripples, drunks, policemen, watchmen – everybody. Nobody is allowed to be up. No newspapers, buses, pictures or any other class of amusement allowed at all. And no matter who you are you must be stuck inside the bed there. Readin’ a book, of course, if you like. But no getting up stakes.

(The Best of Myles, Picador 1968, p. 46).