Let’s hope that Edward St Aubyn’s accomplished first novel is not a roman-à-clef. When we first encounter his hero, failed doctor David Melrose, he is using the early hours of the morning to water his Provençal garden, taking care to massacre as many ants as he can with the jet from his hosepipe. His wealthy wife, Eleanor, has already greeted the new day by having a good old vomit and cutting the phlegm with her first shot of vodka, in preparation for the arrival of her houseguests.
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'These are first thoughts, but they’re made to last, in a way that makes you wonder how well something that feels so raw really can last.'
@sarahditum weighs up the final book in Ali Smith's seasonal quartet.
Enjoying Susan Owens’s essay on English attitudes to nature in @Lit_Review. Turns out the early moderns were positively repulsed by hills, as described in this poem by Isaak Walton’s fishing chum Charles Cotton.