When, early this year, I was invited to give an address at the Melbourne Writers Festival, I didn’t hesitate to accept – nor did I prevaricate when asked what subject I’d be tackling. Such alacrity on my part is uncommon: my writing room, at the top of my house in south London, hasn’t been cleaned since we moved there in 1997. Surveying the furred surfaces and far-off-white walls I often recall Quentin Crisp’s fine observation that “dust is peace”.
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