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There is always a moment - it comes to all of us, irrespective of race, class, religion and all the other what-nots - when you take someone aside and point out everything - everything that has gone wrong. And there is always so much of it, and it takes hours, days, of patient recitation, probably from a book, because it is far too long and involved - like a twisty rope, left out too long in the rain, behind the house, you know it, you have seen it with your own eyes - to commit to memory, even for an old hand such as myself. You completely and utterly exhaust yourself in the doing, you end up…mehr

Produktbeschreibung
There is always a moment - it comes to all of us, irrespective of race, class, religion and all the other what-nots - when you take someone aside and point out everything - everything that has gone wrong. And there is always so much of it, and it takes hours, days, of patient recitation, probably from a book, because it is far too long and involved - like a twisty rope, left out too long in the rain, behind the house, you know it, you have seen it with your own eyes - to commit to memory, even for an old hand such as myself. You completely and utterly exhaust yourself in the doing, you end up speechless, breathless, spent. I do anyway. One cannot walk away from one's nature. In this monologue of a mind's slow dying, an actor, man of abundant words, faces his final audience: of himself. It is a face that he barely recognises through the mist of his own tragic decline...
Autorenporträt
Michael Glover is a Sheffield-born, Cambridgeeducated, London-based poet and art critic, and poetry editor of The Tablet. He has written regularly for Hyperallergic Weekend, the Independent, The Times, the Financial Times, the New Statesman and The Economist. He has also been a London correspondent for ARTNews, New York.