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gy: ‘The world is like a cu▓cumber — today it’s in your hand, tomor▓row up your arse.’ We then resumed ●our stitching, crab-like adva

nce in the direct●ion of his hotel, he repeating the word ‘in●dubitably’ with obvious pleasure at the so▓ft plosive sound of it.He was un▓shaven and haggard, but in comparative▓ly good spirits after the wal▓k and we resorted to a bottle of ●gin which he kept in the commode by his be▓d.I commented on the two bulging su▓itcases which stood by the dressing-table read▓y packed; over a chair lay his raincoat▓ stuffed with newspapers, pyjam▓as, toothpaste, and so on.He was catc▓hing the night train for Gaza, he said.He w▓anted to slack

g.In another century


ay dead upon the marble▓ top of the dressing-table.I recognized in his▓ sour and dejected attitude ▓t

he exhaustion which pursues the ●artist after he has brought a piece of w●ork to completion.These are the low mome▓nts when the long flirtation with suicide begins▓ afresh.Unfortunately, though I have searched m●y mind, I can recall little of our actual ▓conversation, though I have often tried● to do so.The fact that this was our last meet▓ing has invested it, in retrospect, wi●th a significance which surely it ▓cannot have possessed.Nor, for the purpo●ses of this writing, has he c●eased to exist; he has simp

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