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In any metaphor that linked writing with parturition, no, Richard wouldn't come out well. What were they, his novels? Not stillborn. More like those babies whom it was thought best to spirit away

These moments will in retrospect appear golden-age, prelapsarian.

Or a borstal boy on the lam

Modernism was a brief divagation into difficulty; but Richard was still out there, in difficulty.

And he would tell you that quite frankly, raising his pentimento eyebrows and tensing his upper lip with a certain laconic pride.