My relationship with Russell Hoban began a little like one of his novels might: in a disordered room in Fulham, piled high with boxes and files.
Anyone who has ever seen the inside of Russell’s inner sanctum knows that it’s like stepping into his mind. Suddenly you’re surrounded by all of the motifs that he wove again and again, with a composer’s persistence, into his work: sculptures of lions lounge on every shelf and surface, a cackling Punch puppet sits on the mantelpiece, and an antique poster for the premiere of King Kong lies rolled up on the desk. An enormous map of Kent fills one whole wall, and books are piled in shelves that reach to the ceiling. Continue reading “My 6 months of being haunted by Russell Hoban”