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He doesn’t understand. He reads Miller, Mailer, Joyce, Bukowski, Fante, Bataille, he reads Celine’s Voyage to the End of the Night, he reads Genet, he reads Burroughs, he reads Krapp’s Last Tape, why can’t he find a publisher who publishes the kind of book he reads? Every single book he reads is a …

Meanwhile he talks. He says: I should stop drinking, it would be good to do it, you know in Russia they think beer is a soft drink, there’s the attitude that if you’re not doing it till you black out it doesn’t really count. He says: I don’t need it, it’s just another way of doing things to excess.…

One night he sent an e-mail with an attachment, the document he had sent Simon. I opened it avidly, and at first, yes, this was the voice that had possessed me for years, this was that world, here is a Brixton squat party, here he goes home with a girl and smokes heroin, here he takes a late-night …

He says: In Australia there’s this compulsory friendliness? You try to talk about metaphysics and people say Don’t be a downer. You try to talk about Dostoevsky and they say Look, the sun is shining. We can go to the beach. What’s the matter with you? They lie there sunbathing like these reptile cr…

He says: Think I may have lent this one to a friend. I was too tired and emotional to know what I was doing. I’m trying to channel Gogol through a similar haircut, woke up the next morning and it was Lermontov and not covered by the insurance and the nose was missing, AAAAAAARGH (drinks beer which …