Monday, November 24, 2008
I love freshly-baked profiteroles more than almost anything - more, in fact, than has been good for my well-being, and the well-being of my friends and family. You think this is a strange way to begin a novel of this length? You think, perhaps, that it will be a comedy of light oddness, desperate for applause and ashamed of its desperation? I can assure you it is nothing of the sort. In fact, my experiences in southern Italy of that year - but why do you think you deserve to hear my story at all? You don't. Fuck you.