Saturday January 17th 2015
I don't think I'd know
what a Novel is if it jumped out of a hole in the ground
and slapped me on the face. More worrying, I don't
really care what a Novel is and no desire to find out.
The word Novel plucks no heart string in me. Rather it
makes me think of English Detention.
Granted I spend
a great deal of my time thinking about those bits of the
past that I can remember, and a lot of it seemed to have
been spent in detention. I guess too this particular writer
of pulp is rather looking forward to The Rabbit of Usk
reminding him of more recent times. Like the 1970's perhaps.