Amis tells it how it is:
“That’s what writing is, not communication but a means of communion. And here are other writers who swirl around you like friends, patient, intimate, sleep leaky accessible, over centuries. This is the definition of literature”.
Bizarrely I no longer have a copy of this book. Why? Bookshelf rationalisation? Saving space? I kept looking for it. I remember reading it over the Easter break on holiday in mid Wales (UK).
I was taken by, amongst other things, his account of his cousins fatal contact with Fred and Rose West.
Read 12.4.01 to an unrecorded date.