The Writer


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…

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