Conrad Eliot James Austen

Sir Jacob Epstein's bust of Conrad (1924 - the year of his death), Birmingham Art Gallery

I wake up and my fears have fought their way from my core to my skin after sleepless dreams and dreamless sleep. In that no-one’s land between the states of sleeping and waking, sweat demands and end to this, demands action. Yes! No more! I’m infused with change until I find my Id is playing with the controls as usual.

Let’s see: CAD and Winterson, Erich Fried and Searching for England, late Graham Greene through Martin Amis’ eyes. On a stroll through Linz and Habsburger Barock, not only the discovery of Plague Columns and blatant hankering for magic numbers, but also the connection between paving stones and concentration camps. Karl Kraus and Thomas Bernhard twice, through him Wittgenstein again, and did you know that Erika Mann was married to W.H. Auden, and the bloke from Trainspotting to Angelina Jolie? He’s Mr Knightley on the BBC, and I’ve struggled with F.R. Leavis again (hence the title) – another loop closing. I could also throw 12 Lucifers at ‘Numbers’, and ‘Deuteronomy’ at genocide. Der Kontrabaß, however, entertained superbly.