England, England

I think I'm composed of odd little bits. That's standard in this business.

The woman on the train into Chicago from Midway becomes a murder victim. The fellow who sells me popcorn at the art house cinema becomes the killer. A kid I vaguely knew in college becomes Jesus. I give Gimple a spear and laugh.

Some - very little - comes from things I've read. I hope this is true.

One of the things I've read that did stick with me was _England, England_  by Julian Barnes. (available here)



 It was an odd little piece I bought during a time in my life when I was broke, almost out of a job, out with the wife, and drinking enough whiskey to get fan mail from distillers. (Partly why I was broke and almost out of a job).

There are odd little bits in it, too. It's a strange composition from my point of view. Someday over a decent scotch I'm going to have to ask Mr. Barnes a couple questions about the characters he developed and those he left in literary purgatory. [ You know the sort... "Mr. Kellet sat down to dinner and frowned at the earlier confrontation."  The character is never heard from again and is doomed for all time to be there, frowning. You'll understand if you get to spend your eternity as a minor in someone else's novel.]

 Of course, I also enjoyed it very much. I knew his protagonist once upon a time.

It's right up my alley. It might be up yours, as well.