As they turned off the main road through tunnels of overhanging branches, the landscape opened up into broad stretches of parkland, mapped out by stone walls and stands of trees, rising in soft folds. At a cross-roads, Andy jerked his head to the right. “Whatsisname lives up that way,” he said. “You know, Cameron. Big place, drove past it with …
Today I watched a tv news item on the closure of the border with Spain and, collaterally, of the pilgrimage route to Santiago, and it struck me that here was a tiny filament in the incomprehensibly complex web of fractures in the life of the world: like the shattered screen of a mobile phone, but not so easy to replace.
FLIRTING AT HAY You can hear the full audio version of my gig at Hay on the Festival site: http://www.hayfestival.com/p-5822-chris-keil-and-julian-preece.aspx But skip the first 34 minutes!
August 21st 2016View Post
It was sunset, and windy; the house was on the top of a hill. They were lighting fires and heaping rubbish into piles, throwing furniture out of the front door. They were intoxicated with leaving.
From: The Ghostwriter’s Notebook Copyright © Chris Keil 2015 “Disgusting old man, that porrnographer. I met him Stephen you know, in Petersburg in 2005; he dribbles. I think he pisses pants also.” Fabienne was pouring herself a drink, her back to the room. “You’re so rude, darling,” she said. She turned to look at me. “He can’t help it, I …
The Ghostwriter’s Notebook
Good morning! and goodnight!
I’m borrowing an apartment in Lisbon, fabulously glamorous city in a wonderfully frayed and tattered, ever-so-slightly seedy sort of a way, perfect belle époque, faded, a little down-at-heel, a courtesan of a certain age, irresistible! And I’m getting some writing done; for some reason my imagination is being fed raw meat here, even though I’m writing about London and …
A Garden of Forking Paths in Porto, a Borges afternoon
Lisbon in July, the most beautiful city in the world!
I shall be reading from “Flirting at the Funeral” at the Manchester Book Market on Sunday, June 7th. Not to be missed!
Empty, neglected and falling into dereliction, surrounded and ignored by orgies of congratulatory self-promotion, this is Fern Hill in centenary April.