A fatal case of Art

I was walking by the Thames. Half-past morning on an autumn day. Sun in a mist. Like an orange in a fried fish shop. All bright below. Low tide, dusty water and a crooked bar of straw, chicken-boxes, dirt and oil from mud to mud. Like a viper swimming in skim milk. — The horse’s mouth. (Colourised detail from cover illustration by David Gentleman.)

I have just finished reading The horse’s mouth by Joyce Cary (first published 1944), a book unjustly forgotten by a world that races into the hippityhoppity tiketty toketty future. Before I change my mind, you can read about it.

Continue here to read the review …

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