An Extract…

This is an extract from a novel I am in the process of finishing up:

Bottles ranged on shelves against a mirrored wall barman working vigorously making coffee pouring drinks washing dishes / skinny pimp leans on the counter / man smoking a pipe reads a newspaper and Clark sat, the humiliation or anger or regret of what had happened with Susan still their, lingering, like a bad odour that followed him wherever he went and maybe the only way he could really wash it away was to throw himself into some new role, throw himself away and be recreated as something if not the opposite of what he had been at least with the quality of spirit that enables one to face difficulty and danger with firmness—not the difficulty and danger of being cheated on, because that had been almost a relief, but to face his own lack of renown with something resembling courage.



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