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12 June 2014 | by Edward St Aubyn | Comments: 0

He was, he acknowledged wearily, something of a writers’ writer; his wry, waspish semi-autobiographical novels were far more highly esteemed by his fellow scribes than read by the Richard and Judy-following public. When he was eventually shortlisted for a major award, many of the literati expressed surprise and disappointment that he did not win. He shared neither their surprise nor their disappointment. Frankly, it was a relief not to be the star of a three-ring circus presided over by a superannuated intelligence chief.Then it occurred to him. Would not the whole farcical business make an admirable subject for a comic novel? It would certainly put the cat among the pigeons. There would, of course, be the accusations of sour grapes, but he would rise effortlessly above them.It woul ....... ....... ........ ........ ........ ........ ........ ........ ........ ........ ........

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