Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the Atlantic spurt through it’s fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent. The Evening Party, Virgina Woolf
This is a collection of writings, photographs and drawings that I’ve decided to title ‘Cylinder no.4’ – a name inspired to me by the work of Blaise Cendrars.
Born halfway through the eighties; working in the city, living by the sea; problem with people, with women, with booze; never been able to get on with much. All my favourite writers are dead. I will never be as good as I want to be. I am available for children's parties.
If something is labelled as journal then it’s probably true. If something is labelled fiction then it is entirely false, or at least more false than true; I wouldn’t like to factually distance myself from everything I write.
Any comments containing my name will not be approved. I apologise in advance for the ridiculous measures I’ve had to adopt in order to ensure my secrecy from the people in my life.
|So far this year|
The Selected Works Of T.S. Spivet Reif Larsen 2009
The Unbearable Lightness Of Being Milan Kundera 1982
Madame Bovary Gustave Flaubert 1856
My Childhood Maxim Gorky 1926
We Have Always Lived In The Castle Shirley Jackson 1962
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn 1962
The God of Small Things Arundhati Roy 1997
Silk Handkerchiefs Paul Haworth 2009
Last Exit To Brooklyn Hubert Selby Jr. 1964
Hunger Knut Hamsun 1890
Orlando Virginia Woolf 1928