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Thomas,

You asked me what I thought of your novel.

Andrew Black

____________

ssss1 In English, the literary arrow of time travels to the right. This is our law of pages, lines, words and letters. Left is a past left behind, and right is an unknown future. Of course, you know this. You’re travelling along with that arrow at this very moment. But be careful, these words might appear to be rattling by like scenery glimpsed from a train window but – just like that scenery – nothing on this page is really moving at all.

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Why Knocks An Angel?

The books on the bookshelf stand in silent, dusty rows.

They stand, and stand, and stand.

Nothing happens. Nothing changes.

Within certain parameters, this could be any day at all.

The books are the books. The dust is just – dust.

Do you know what dust is? Have you ever really thought about it?

Dust is everything and nothing happening all at once.

It’s the smoke and exhaust from the breathing city; it’s the Great Fire and the Blitz, the Elizabeth Line and the braziers in the Temple of Mithras. It’s the life and times of Thomas and Imogen Quinn, the fibres from their tissues, tights and Christmas jumpers; it’s skin particles sent swirling from scratched heads, rubbed eyes and rough hugs, from high fives, DIY, stupid dancing and handjobs, from yanked-down knickers and pulled-up socks, from arm waving, shouting, crying and itches that are up a bit, up a bit, up a bit more. It’s an intermingling of all those things, events, and all the different people we have been as we’ve lived together in this space, it’s a mixing together of almost everything to create – almost nothing.