“A writer who has no equal in the contemporary landscape of the Spanish novel.”
— Roberto Bolaño on Enrique Vila-Matas
My senses sharpen at the words of Stevie Smith… Smith had recently passed away after a lifetime of bleeding to death. She appeared to live like a never-opened window, with hardly any right to be, except to pass on a shivery touch of flu. She lived with her aunt in a Victorian pile in Palmers Green, all so painful yet full of life; absent from life—yet all of it right on top of her; fencing adversity with spilled ink; 50 percent blotting paper and 50 percent loose tea.