A meditative, performative novel of about 200 pages. And a short piece of prose with luxurious padding to the right-hand side.
As a narrative, it resembles and performs a flight of consciousness. In that sense, the book is kind of like an instrument or an introspective game.
As a form, it satirizes the idea that complex things are more valuable than simple things. And reminds us that the difference between the two is pretty arbitrary.
The old man who opened an art gallery in a huge, empty castle and showed just one work (a tiny painting in the foyer) for thousands of years.
John went to school in Torquay and, now 24, he writes from pubs in London.
His next book is called ‘Benny’s Dungeon.’