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This morning two clues in particular taunted and traduced him

Somehow it always happened that Richard was out on the street when the German car ripped past—frozen with loathing, his imprecations tousled and tossed aside by the barreling backdraft.

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