Until relatively recent history no one knew that across the Tigress and written on tablets of baked clay buried within a mound in Nineveh, in what is modern-day Iraq, lay the oldest written piece of literature on Earth.
For the past week I’ve woken up every night in a cold sweat. It’s not the thought of bills, chores or work that wake me… it’s my novel.
This wasn’t death-by-selfie which is totally a thing now, but death-near-selfie which is considerably more pedestrian and that’s really saying something.
My first memories belong to the surreal landscape of childhood. Cushioned in tenderness, they flicker a blurred reel of mango trees, mud pies and mosquito screens. Occasionally, through the fuzz, concrete moments come into focus. For me, the first of those is the imprint of a rainy afternoon in a library.
Acres of sand greeted me on the morning I woke in Cebu. Arriving on the midnight flight from Hong Kong, my Filipina host and her German husband had collected me from the airport. For three hours our trinity drove north into darkened jungle. But for the occasional village-party exploding wild by the roadside, the tableaus […]