TS Eliot smoked himself to death. At the end,
he was more kipper than man, fit only for
consumption by his own cats. They were –
like the continuing and eternal success
of poetry – to remain in his imagination.
Lungs and poets have a poor relationship. For
With the prose novel so firmly entrenched as the fiction writer’s main outlet these days, it’s easy to forget – or to never have known – that the novel is a relative newcomer on the writing scene, less than five hundred years old and only really popular in the last two...