Life irritating art

Life seems to have elbowed writing to one side lately, which explains the long gaps between posts, and the fact that I have very little to report when I get here. I have been (very slowly) reading Anthony Trollope’s autobiography, filled in every chapter with pearls of wisdom (as well as his wonderful style and a few random anecdotes). I’m not going to recommend it to anyone who doesn’t already have a well-established soft spot for him, but when I have more time/motivation/organisation I may well start a series of Trollope’s Pearls of Wisdom posts where I share and discuss the views of one of my favourite authors (I bet you can’t wait).

In the meantime, you can read a very short story by my friend D (I have no particular reason for the use of the initial, but since it was an arbitrary rule I can arbitrarily adhere to it). It’s in a horror magazine, but in this instance I would say it’s more horror by implication, so don’t let that deter you if horror’s not really your thing.

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