With writers, as with footballers, there comes a time in the career when age starts to be mentioned regularly, either as an explanation for decline or as a cause for a pat on the back for those who ‘defy’ it. The latter smacks of faint praise, of course – ‘good for his age’ – but I think I can justify mentioning that Francis King is eighty-six, because to some degree it serves as an explanation: in part, the novel succeeds precisely because of the author’s age.

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