I’d seek out his public lectures, sit in the auditorium and close my eyes.
His voice was a rich bass. And his control over it was extraordinary.
He’d programmed a monthly series on liberal diplomacy, the future of state-building and peace studies. He also wrote prose poems about the futility of war.
I made sure I always sat in his eyeline. Occasionally, I made notes.
But mostly, fantasised about him, late at night, whispering his literary theories into my ear, his breath hot on my neck.
To be continued…
To read full story, buy PDF booklet.