Fiction writings
[ top ] Dr. Copernicus (1976), on naming: At first it had no name. It was the thing itself, the vivid thing. It was his friend. On windy days it danced, demented, waving wild arms, or in the silence of evening, drowsed and dreamed, swaying in the blue, the goldeny air. Even at night it did not go away. It was a part of the world, and yet it was his friend [...] Tree. That was its name. Further, [T]he linden. They were nice words. He had know them a long time before he knew what they meant. They did not mean themselves, they were nothing in themselves, they meant the dancing singing thing outside. / Everything had a name, but although every name was nothing without the thing named, the thing cared nothing for its name, had no need of a name, and was itself only. (The Revolution Trilogy, Picador 2001, p.9.) Copernicus, to Adalbert Brudzewski: I believe not in names, but in things. I believe that the physical world is amenable to physical investigation, and if astronomers will do no more than sit in their cells counting upon their fingers then they are shirking their responsibility! (Trilogy, p.46.) He believed in action, in the absolute necessity for action. Yet action horrified him, tending as it did inevitably to become violence. Nothing was stable: politics became war, law became slavery, life itself became death, sooner or later. Always the ritual collapsed in the face of the hideousness. The real world would not be gainsaid, being the true realm of action, but he must gainsay it, or despair. That was his problem. (Trilogy, p.37.) Copernicus: You wonder why I will not publish? The people will laugh at my book, or that that mangled version of it which filters down to them from the universities. The people will always mistake at first the frightening for the comic thing. But very soon they will come to see what it is I have done. I mean what they will imagine I have done, diminished Earth, made of it merely another planet among planets, they will begin despise the world, and something will die, and out of that death will come death. You do not know what I am talking about, do you, Rheticus? You are a fool, like the rest ... like myself. (Trilogy, p.140.)
Kepler (1981): The vision of the harmony of the world is always before me, calling me on. God will not abandon me. I shall survive. I keep with me a copy of that engraving by the great Dürer of Nuremberg, which is called Knight with Death & the Devil, an image of stoic grandeur & fortitude from which I derive much solace: for this is how one must live, facing into the future, indifferent to terrors and yet undeceived by foolish hopes. (p.128; cited in McMinn, op. cit., 1991, p.85). [I]n the beginning is the shape! Hence I foresee a work divided into five parts, to correspond to the five planetary intervals, while the number of chapters in each part will be based on the signifying quantities of each of the five regular and Platonic solids which, according to my Mysterium, may be fitted to these intervals. Also, as a form of decoration and to pay my due respect, I intend that the inituals of the chapters should spell out acrostically the names of certain famous men. (1983 Edn., p.145; quoted in Conor McCarthy, Modernisation: Crisis and Culture in Ireland 1969-1992, Four Courts Press 2000, p.132.) The proportions everywhere abound, in music and the movements of the planets, in human and vegetable forms, in mens fortunes aeven, but they are all relation merely, and inexistent without the perceiving soul. How is such perception possible? Peasants and children, barbarians, animals even, feel the harmony of the tone. Therefore the perceiving must be instinct in the soul, based in a profound and essential geometry, that geometry which is derived from the simple divisioning of circles. All that he had for long held to be the case. Now he took the short step to the fusion of symbol and object. The circle is the bearer of pure harmonies, pure harmonies are innate in the soul, and so the soul and the circle are one. / Such simplicity, such beauty. (Ibid., p.174; McCarthy, op. cit., p.133.) [ top ] Mefisto (1986): Oh, I worked. Ashburn, Jack Kay, my mother, the black dog, the crash, all this, it was not like numbers, yet it too must have rules, order, some sort of pattern. Always I had thought of numbers falling on the chaos of things like frost falling on water, the seething particles tamed and sorted, the crystals locking, the frozen lattice spreading outwards in all directions. I could feel it in my mind, the crunch of things coming to a stop, the creaking stillness, the stunned, white air. But marshall the factors how I might, they would not equate now. Everything was sway and flow and sudden lurch ... Zero, minus quantities, irrational numbers, the infinite itself, suddenly these things revealed themselves for what they really had been, always. I grew dizzy. (p.109.) - Listen, he [Felix] said, you like to know the truth, dont you? [114] In the beginning was the fact, and all that? Well, come on, then, Ill show you something. / We went into the house, up to the attic, to Mr Kasperls room. Felix quietly pushed the door open an inch. I put my eye to the crack. The room was full of calm white light. A fly buzzed against a window-pane. Mr Kasperl lay on his back on the bed, eyes closed, his mouth open, like a big, beached sea-creature. His legs were unexpectedly skinny, with knotted, purple veins. His big belly glimmered palely, rising and falling, lightly flossed with reddish fur. His sex lolled in its thick nest, livid, babyish and limp. Sophie stood at the foot of the bed, putting on her slip. She lifted her arms above her head, for a second before the silk sheath fell I saw her shadowed armpits and silvery breasts, the little patch of black hair between her legs. She turned then and caught sight of me. She smiled, and came towards us, with a stocking in her hand. I stepped back, and Felix deftly closed the door. Downstairs he fished in the sagging pocket of his mackintosh and brought out the carriage clock and peered at it. / - Dear me, he said, is that the time? A battered cardboard suitcase stood in the hall. He picked it up. / - Well, Im off. After summer merrily, you know. Care to walk me to the train? (pp.114-15.)
The Book of Evidence (1989): My Lord, when you ask me to tell the court in my own words, this is what I shall say. I am kept locked up here like some exotic animal, last survivor of a species they had thought extinct. They should let in people to view me, the girl-eater, svelte and dangerous, padding to and fro, in my cage, my terrible green glance flickering past the bars, give them something to dream about, tucked up cosy in their beds of a night. After my capture they clawed at each other to get a look at me. They would have paid money for the privilege, I believe. They shouted abuse, and shook their fists at me, showing their teeth. It was unreal, somehow, frightening yet comic, the sight of them, there, milling on the pavements like film extras, young men in cheap raincoats, and women with shopping bags, and one or two silent, grizzled characters who just stood, fixed on me hungrily, haggard with envy. Then a guard threw a blanket over my head and bundled me into a squad car. I laughed. There was something irresistibly funny in the way reality, banal as ever, was fulfilling my worst fantasies (1990 Minerva Edn. p.3). [Freddys on his life:] '[not] a thing of signposts and decisive marching, but drift only, a kind of slow subsidence, my shoulders bowing down under the gradual accumulation of all the things I had done. (pp.33-34.) there is no form, no order, only echoes and coincidences, sleight of hand, dark laughter. I accept it. (p.174.)
[ top ] Ghosts (1994): Still the dream persists, suppressed but always there, that somehow by some miraculous effort of the heart what was done could be undone. What form would such atonement take that would turn back time and bring the dead to life? None. None possible, not in the real world. And yet in my imaginings I can clearly- see this cleansed new creature streaming up out of myself like a proselyte rising drenched from the baptismal river amid glad cries. (p.68.) Further, Banquo was a dampener on the kings carousings, and Hamlets father made what I cannot but think were excessive calls on filial piety. Yet, for myself, I know I would be grateful for any intercourse with the dead, no matter how baleful their stares or unavoidable their pale, pointing fingers. I feel I might be able, not to exonerate, but to explain myself, perhaps, to account for my neglectfulness, my failures, the things left unsaid, all those sins against the dead. (Frames Trilogy: Athena, The Book of Evidence, Ghosts, London: Picador, 2001), p.264; quoted in Joanne Watkiss, Ghosts in the Head: Mourning, Memory and Derridean Trace in John Banvilles The Sea, in The Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies, 2 (March 2007) [online]. Eclipse (2000): At first it was a form. Or not even that. A weight, an extra weight, a ballast. I felt it that first day out in the fields. It was as if someone had fallen silently into step beside me, or inside me, rather, some[one] who was else, another and yet familiar. [ [...] /] I turned and looked back at the house and saw what I took to be my wife standing at the window of what was once my mothers room (p.3.) On the ghost: The womans manner, if it is possible to speak of such an evanescent being as having a manner, is one of surmise and vague expectation; she is tentative, bemused, uncertain. Oh, I am not so deluded as not to know that these images are the product of my imagination - but they are a product; they are not in my head, they are outside; I see them, clear as anything I can touch, the sky, the clouds, those far blue hills. At night they press into my dreams, wan shades mutely clamouring for my attention. In the daytime there are passages when they will flicker about me like widefire. As I step through this or that picture of their doings I seem to feel a crackle of fainting, falling energy, as if I had broken the tenuous connections of a force field. Something is expected of me there, something is being asked of me. They are not even proper spectres, bent on being terrifying or delivering awful warnings. Shrieks in the darkness, groans and clanking chains, such effects, however exhausted or banal, might at least succeed in frightening me, but what am I to make of this little ghost trio to whose mundane doings I am the puzzled and less than willing witness? / Trio? Did I say trio? There is only the woman and the even more indistinct child - who is the third? Who, if not I? Perhaps Lydia is right, perhaps I have at last become my own ghost. (p.55.) [...] Here I am, a grown man in a haunted house, obsessing on the past. (Ibid., p.57.) Notice intertextual allusions to Marie Edgeworths Castle Rackrent and Joyces The Dead in the names of Quirke and his dg. Lily, as well as recurrent Shakespearean echoes.
The Infinities (2010): Of the things we fashioned for them that they might be comforted, dawn is the one that works. When darkness sifts from the air like fine soft soot and light spreads slowly out of the east then all but the most wretched of humankind rally. It is a spectacle we immortals enjoy, this minor daily resurrection, often we will gather at the ramparts of the clouds and gaze down upon them, our little ones, as they bestir themselves to welcome the new day. What a silence falls upon us then, the sad silence of our envy. Many of them sleep on, of course, careless of our cousin Auroras charming matutinal trick, but there are always the insomniacs, the restless ill, the lovelorn tossing on their solitary beds, or just the early-risers, the busy ones, with their knee-bends and their cold showers and their fussy little cups of black ambrosia. Yes, all who witness it greet the dawn with joy, more or less, except of course the condemned man, for whom first light will be the last, on earth. / Here is one, standing at a window in his fathers house, watching the days early glow suffuse the sky above the massed trees beyond the railway line. He is condemned not to death, not yet, but to a life into which he feels he does not properly fit. [...] (Extract printed in The New York Times, [ Friday] 5 March 2010; for longer version, see attached.) [ top ] Articles & reviews Dream fiction: A novel seems to be as if you had sat down and taken three or four years to explain a dream to someone in such a way that they could experience the weight and power of the dream that you did (Interview with Ciaran Carty, in The Sunday Tribune, 14 Sept. 1986; quoted in McMinn, op. cit., 1991, p.127 [notes]).
[ top ] Fiction and the Dream, in Irish Studies in Brazil [Pesquisa e Crítica, 1], ed. Munira H. Mutran & Laura P. Z. Izarra (Associação Editorial Humanitas 2005), pp.21-28 - being An Address delivered at the Creative Writing Program of the University of Philadelphia, Sept. 2005): It was one of those dreams that seem to take the entire night to be dreamt. All of him was involved in it, his unconscious, his subconscious, his memory, his imagination; even his physical self seemed thrown into the effort. The details of the dream flood back, uncanny, absurd, terrifying, and all freighted with a mysterious weight - such a weight as is carried by only the most profound experiences of life, of waking life, that is. And indeed, all of his life, all of the essentials of his life, were somehow there, in the dream, folded tight, like the petals of a [21] rosebud. Some great truth has been revealed to him, in a code he knows he will not be able to crack. But cracking the code is not important, is not necessary; in fact, as in a work of art, the code itself is in the meaning. (pp.21-22.)
Fiction and the Dream, in Irish Studies in Brazil (2005) - cont.: I should emphasise here that I have no grand psychological theory of the creative process to offer you. I am not a Freudian, although I admire Freud as a great literary fabulator. [...] And I am [24] certainly not a Jungian. Indeed, when I hear the word psychology applied in the area of fiction I tend to reach for my revolver. (Fiction is the presentation of hard evidence - but thats another days lecture.) I do not pretend to know how the mind, consciously or otherwise, processes the base metal of quotidian life into the gold of art. Even if I could find out, I would not want to. Certain things should not be investigated. / When I began to write I was a convinced rationalist, if a decidedly ecstatic one. I believed, and fiercely and indignantly defended my belief, that I, the writer was in control of what I wrote. [...] (p.25 - cont.)
Fiction and the Dream, in Irish Studies in Brazil (2005) - cont.: Banville here gives an account and record of a dream which he incorporated in The Sea, viz.: A dream it was that drew me here. not knowing rightly where I was except that I was going home. &c.; p.27-28.] What encoded meaning or message did it carry out of my subconscious into the hospitable medium of cold print? [Speaks particularly of something plangent, grief-stricken, almost, in that word home in the dream-passage quoted and cites Wallace Stevenss phrase pierces me with relation.] Further: The writing of fiction is far more than the telling of stories. It is an ancient, an elemental, urge which springs, like the dream, from a desperate imperative to encode and preserve things that are buried in us deep beyond words. This is its significance and its glory. (p.28; end.)
A World Without People, interview-article by Arminta Wallace, in The Irish Times (21 Sept. 2000), incls. quotations: Any writer whos honest with himself wants to go silent. The only utterance that can be perfect is silence; it can be perfect, but it cant be eloquent, at least not for very long. But yes, theres certainly a move toward emptying of content. It has become a kind of mantra with me that the problem with writing at the end of the 20th century or the beginning of the 21st, is that we have these two enormous figures behind us, Joyce and Beckett. Joyce put everything in; Beckett took everything out; my solution is put everything in and then deny it all. / But what Ive always been trying to do is make prose have the weight of, and be as demanding as, poetry. Of course peoples heats sink when they hear this, but Im not talking about moons and Junes and dance and lance.. Im trying to get more purity, Im trying to get more intensity, and Im trying to get simpler. And these are very difficulty things to do, because a novel doesnt offer simplicity; it offers complexity and prolixity, the ebb and flow of life itself. Further, Surroundings are very, very important. I think of myself as a posthumanist writer - for me, human beings are not the centre of the universe. This is why the books are constantly sliding away from people to talk about what surrounds them; the light, the colours, the atmosphere. Under the guise of being nature poets, the English Romantic poets actually wrote about their own sensibilities as reflected in nature. What Im trying to do is the opposite; to have nature, the world itself, reflected in the characters, so that you can almost see through them. They almost become transparent. This is why reviewers are constantly complaining about my lack of human interest, my lack of interest in characters and so on. Im trying to do something new, and when youre trying to do something new, you only know what it is when youve done it. Im encouraged, somehow, by Eclipse: I think thats its as near as Ive got to writing a book that has no real centre. Further, In the past Irish fiction was essentially pastoral. Not just that it was set in the country, but pastoral in the classical sense of allegorical stories with a generally benighted view of nature I grew up outside a small town and spent most of my childhood wandering around the fields with my dog and so on; and nature, as I observed it, was, not necessarily threatening, bot necessarily malign, but indifferent. And this always fascinated me. That there were trees and fields and skies and cows; and then there was us. Completely different to anything else that was around. And I conceived very early on that we were natures greatest mistake, as well as natures greatest glory, these creatures walking around with these strange ideas in our heads. / The only piece of prose fiction that Ive ever written that is my voice is a paragraph in The Book of Evidence where Freddie says he thinks our presence here is a cosmic blunder, that we were really meant to be on some other planet. And then he wonders about the earthlings who were meant to be here - how are they getting on out there? And he concludes that they couldnt have survived in a world that was meant to contain us. Further: In our post-religious age people are inclined to take novelists and poets as priests, almost; as people who will tell you how to fix your life and save your soul. Andy maybe the work of art does do that; but the artist doesn t. Hes just trying to get this bloody thing out of the way and an get on to the next. [...].
[ top ] Bloomsday, Bloody Bloomsday, in New York Books Review (16 June 2004) [Essay], p.31: Very many years ago, when I was growing up in the town of Wexford, on the southeast coast of Ireland, I dearly wished to get hold of a copy of James Joyces Ulysses. I had read Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and had even written, on a big black Remington borrowed from my Aunt Sadie, a number of lugubrious short stories in what I thought was the Joycean manner, mainly devoted to the subject of death and all centered on a neurastenic young hero whom no one truly understood, whose soul was much given to swooning and who went under different names but was always me / I had no doubts that my nascent literary endeavors showed me already to be one of Joyces direct heirs - if not the heir - but I was in a hurry to put these childish efforts behind me and get on to the real thing ... Leopold Bloom was the man I was after, as (perhaps more important) Molly was the woman. [Purchased copy of Ulysses in Liverpool and 17, and suffered his mothers threat to up it on the fire.] When I read itself, I had the same pleasant seeries of jolts of recognition that the first readers of The Waste Land must have experienced when they encoutnered echo uponfamiliar echo in Eliots thickly allusive text. Further remarks on Anthony Cronins downbeat version of the structured and, in a way, humorless event of the first Bloomsday in 1954, and a later event of 1982 instigated by Cronin when writers from around the world were invited to Dublin to celebrate Joyces own centenary. Among the many notable artists who came was - yes - [Juan Luis] Borges, who by then was in his 80s and totally blind. He was collected from the airport by a couple of volunteer meeters-and-greeters, who deposited him in his suite at the Shelbourne Hotel and went off to do more meeting and greeting. When they returned, late in the day, Borges was still in his room, and in fact had not left during the intervening hours. What was he to have done, Borges asked, since he did not know the city or anyone in it? Ever since, when I hear talk of Bloomsday celebrations, that, I am afraid, is the image that springs immediately to mind: an old, blind writer, one of the greatest of his age, sitting alone in a hotel room overlooking an unseen St. Stephens Green. [End.] (Includes further reference to Borges [The Precessionof Simulcra] and to Jean Baudrillard; see also under Hugh Kenner, infra.)
[ top ] Sundry Remarks
Mass media: Banville professes belief that the mass media have doomed the novel to extinction and that it will only survive in universities: We are as in the 1890s, a period of Dark Ages. It is the end of the novel, but something new will take place. (Interview with Laura P. Zuntini di Izarra, [so transcribed] in Izarra, Mirrors and Holographic Labyrinths: The Process of a New Synthesis in the Novels of John Banville, SF: Internat. Scholars Publ. 1999, p.10.) Shape for Arts Sake: In art the only absolute criterion is shape, form, ratio, harmony, call it what you will, call it order ( Physics and Fiction: Order from Chaos, in The New York Book Review, 21 April 1985, p.41; quoted in Izarra, op. cit. 1999, p.11.)
Character in fiction: I never had any interest in character (that is, in fiction). Freddie Montgomery [in the Book of Evidence] is a mere voice, no character. These figures carry the pattern of the books. This is why I should like Cézanne more, because I dont like to have a centre. When Graham Greene was judging some prize The Book of Evidence won, he complained that there is nothing in the book that he would remember. And I thought, absolutely right, this is what I wanted. When I did Birchwood, my first real novel, I deliberately chose stock characters, caricatures, the beautiful, suffering mother, the hard-drinking, cruel father, the sensitive son, the ghastly grandparents, the comic servants and I put them all in a big house, the most clichéd thing in Irish fiction. And then I tried to subvert the type, to make something else out of it. The only direct statement Ive ever made in any book that I have written is at the end of Birchwood where the protagonists says: Ill stay in this house and Ill live a life different from any the house has ever known. [Birchwood, p.174]. And that is my statement. I stay in this country but Im not going to be an Irish writer. Im not going to do the Irish thing. (In Hedwig Schall, An Interview with John Banville, in The European English Messenger, Vol. VI, 1, Spring 1997, p.19; end.)
National literature? (2): There is no such thing as Irish national literature, only Irish writers engaged in the practice of writing. (op. cit., 1979, p.409; quoted in Tjebbe Westendorp, The Great War in Irish Memory: The Case of Poetry, in Geert Lernout, ed., The Crows Behind the Plough: History and Violence in Anglo-Irish Poetry and Drama, Amsterdam: Rodopi 1991, p.139; also in Edna Longley, From Cathleen to Anorexia, rep. in The Living Stream, 1994, p.179.) Cf., We are part of a tradition, a European tradition; why not acknowledge it? (Quoted in Imhof, Q & A with John Banville [interview], Irish Literary Supplement, 1987, p.13; cited in Conor McCarthy, op. cit., 2000, p.80.)
Irish & Language: For the Irish, language is not primarily a tool for expressing what we mean. Sometimes I think it is quite the opposite. We have profound misgivings about words. We love them - all too passionately, some of us - but we do not trust them. Therefore we play with them. I am well aware of the danger there is in saying these things. Shamrocks. Leprechauns. The gift of the gab. Little old men with pipes in their gobs sitting on ditches and maundering on about how things were in their fathers time. In a word, pronounced chaarrm. If I have conjured these images, please banish them at once from your minds. What I am talking about is something subversive, destructive even, and in a way profoundly despairing. Listen to any group of Irish people conversing, from whatever class, in whatever circumstances, and behind the humour and the rhetoric and the slyness you will detect a dark note of hopelessness before the phenomenon of a world that is always out there. (Rüdiger Imhof, My Readers, That Small Band, Deserve a Rest: An Interview with John Banville, in Irish University Review, John Banville Special Issue, ed. Rüdiger Imhof, Spring 1981, pp.5-12, p.14; quoted in McMinn, op. cit, 1991, p.8; also, briefly, in Conor McCarthy, Modernisation, Crisis and Culture in Ireland 1969-1992, Four Courts Press 2000, p.114, p.114.)
Northern Troubles?: I was surprised by how much of the Northern Troubles had crept into it [Birchwood], without my knowing. So, that book is representative of its time, but I didnt do it to be that way. And this is the absolutely crucial difference, between what you mean to do and what is done. (Interview, Hot Press, 5 Oct. 1994; quoted in Laura P. Zuntini di Izarra, Mirrors and Holographic Labyrinths: The Process of a New Synthesis in the Novels of John Banville, SF: Internat. Scholars Publ. 1999, p.31.) [ top ] Lost Decades: Banville writes about his memories of emigrants departing from Rosslare: There they were, the crowds of awkward, lost yong men with their cardboard suitcases, heading for the building sites of places with cruel names: Hackney, Wolverhampton, Liverpool, the Bronxh, and recalls seeing them again years later in London: these same men, grown older and harder but still awkward, still lost, playing mournful two-man games of hurling in Hyde Park on summer Sunday mornings. (Essay in Dermot Keogh, ed., Ireland in the 1950s: The Lost Decade, Mercier 2004, quoted in Joe Horgan, review, Books Ireland, Nov. 2004, p.261.)
Larkins women: remarks in review of Anthony Thwaite, ed., Collected Poems of Philip Larkin and First Boredom, Then Fear: Life of Larkin, by Richard Bradford, in in New York Review of Books, 23 Feb. 2006, 20-23: If Larkin ever found himself, then it was in Belfast, of all places, that the happy discovery was made. He was free of his family, and among the college staff, he made friends who opened for him new vistas of freedom and fulfillment. In particular he was taken with Patsy Strang, née Avis - later she would marry the poet Richard Murphy - the wife of a lecturer in the philosophy department. Larkin was fascinatined [Andrew] Motion writes, by the food-providing, drink-pouring, dog-loving, occasionally pipe-smoking tall, rather gawky brunette Pasy Strang [Life of Larkin], and they embarked upon an affair which, one surmises, offered Larkin his first real glimpse of what could be had beyond the spiritual and sensual limits which his background, and his own cramped personality, had imposed on him. / Patsy was one of the many women whom Larkin depended upon, or exploited, including Monica Jones, his most enduring love, who at various times had to share him with Maeve Brennan, Larkins colleague at Hull, and his secretary Betty Mackereth. Larkin vacillated between his women, lying to all of them, as he ineptly sought to conceal from each of them his true feelings for the others. It is hard not to judge him harshly for his behaviour in these afairs of the heart, but the evidence remains that all of his women, no matter how badly he treated them, remained lyal andloving to the very end - when he wa dying, oc cancer of the esophagus, they would sometimes encounter each other at his beside - which is surely a testament to his worth as a man, for thes were strong, self-respecting women who say him for what he was, and accepted it. / All of this is incidental to what matters, which is the poetry.
Becoming Benjamin Black: [...] I was driving into Dublin along the sea road from Howth. There had been rain but it had stopped, and the light from a luminously clouded sky was pewter-bright, and puddles on the road were shivering in the wind, and the rooks above the trees in St Annes Park were being tossed about the air like scraps of charred paper. I had reached a place along the road called Black Banks when Victors prompting popped up again in my mind, and on the spot I knew what I would do: I would turn the television project into a novel. Not a John Banville novel, that was clear from the outset, but something altogether new to me: new, and venturesome, and risky. / The force of the idea was such that I drew the car to the side of the road and stopped and, for some reason, laughed. It was a loud laugh, unsteady, and sounded, even to my own ears, slightly maniacal. Thinking back now, I realise it was less a laugh than the birth-cry of my dark and twin brother Benjamin Black. / At once I wrote to my friend Beatrice von Rezzori, who runs a writers foundation at Santa Maddalena [...] Thus it was that I found myself in the pink-tinged light of a cold March morning in Tuscany setting out, or, more prosaically, sitting down, to become someone else. / In another one of those suspiciously clear and definite memories I see myself there that Monday morning, in those medieval surroundings, at that scarred old olive-wood table, opening a blank, black-jacketed manuscript book and writing on the first page the title Christine Falls, while within me my heart quailed before the task I had set myself. [...] (For full-text copy, see attached.)
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