Reflections of a working writer and reader
In books I've written about my childhood, I can't remember, suddenly, what I left out, what I said. I think I wrote about our love for our mother, but I don't know if I wrote about how we hated her too, or about our love for one another, and our terrible hatred too, in that common family history of ruin and death which was ours whatever happened, in love or in hate, and which I still can't understand however hard I try, which is still beyond my reach, hidden in the very depths of my flesh, blind as a new born child. It's the area on whose brink silence begins. Marguerite Duras
In the title story to this impressive collection, Harriet, ensconced in the Pensione Cesarina after a love affair is finished, is just thirty years old and lonely. Loneliness is a condition that many of Trevor’s characters endure and he is a master at finding the right rhythms and tones to portray their inner lives. This […]
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