Wednesday February 3rd 2016Tim
Vestry of Monnow Potlatch may or may not have been a
good thing. It reminds me a little of a moment that was
exorcised from The Windral because it really just made
no sense whatsoever and yet it was such a neat moment
your writer of pulp had terrible trouble removing it
from the narrative. Our hero was in Reading, England,
and he and his grandfather were rambling on about the
Patron Saint of Reading being a Biscuit Manufacturer
rather than something sensible like a Dane called Eric.
Then for no good reason our hero was at the Reading,
England, railway station where DH Laurence once lost his
manuscript, all five hundred thousand words of The Seven
Pillars of Wisdom.
And I think, if
there is a point, it has to do with an inclination in your
writer of pulp which sometimes leads him to assume that his
access to narrative has more to do with channeling a great
beyond of dancing figures, restless ghosts and broken
dreams, and this access has just the occasional open window.
Once the window's closed it can never be opened again, which
sounds depressing. Of course in the olden days your
correspondent could pop in and out of the window whenever he
chose to, it was called heavy drinking. Yes indeed, The
Vestry of Monnow begins on a park bench in Tomislav Square
which is in the Croatian city of Zagreb. It's not quite the
end of winter, there's a railway station and a debate.