A N Wilson
Enemy of Promise
The other day I bumped into a friend who had not seen me for some time. I asked about his life, and he then asked about mine. Was I still enjoying being Literary Editor of the Spectator? I told him that I had not held this post for some months and that I now lived in retirement in the provinces. A pained expression passed over his face. ‘But don’t you miss Literary London?’ he asked.
It turned out that he was one of those people who believed that Literary London was ‘run’ by a largish clique of likeminded figures. They drifted round from one publisher’s party to the next. They had riotously amusing lunches at restaurants like Bertorellis in Charlotte Street or the Old Compton
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