MEET CHRIS ROSE – interviewed by author Lucinda E. Clarke.

This is an interview I had just before Christmas, for Lucinda, on her wonderful, author-promo website. And, busy as she is, here it is!

MEET CHRIS ROSE

Enjoy and support!

Your literary, theatrical, friend.

‘Not as good as the book,’ scoffed Madam Snooty, like she’d written it. Books & films/movies, for better or for worse – the befores & afters…

Welcome, as always, to my last blog post of the year, accompanied by a promise of 1000s to come throughout 2018. Certainly more regularly.

And for my regular readers, those of you having been patient enough to read my posts on the five books I claim to have changed my life, followed accordingly by five such films/movies, well, here I’d like not only to add something further to those posts, but to compare each medium dealing with the same piece of work as a story; the same script: the book version, and the film/movie version.

In this post I’m going to offer you five films/movies I deem to be greater than their forerunners, their original book version, some by far.

And why might I prefer to do it that way around?

Well, however fascinating the subject may be, I believe it to be one out of which filmmakers tend to get a raw deal.

I confess, also, to having developed over the years a slight aversion to the book snob. You know the type; you possibly are one, as I no doubt am too. I’m not sure we can help ourselves:

‘Oh, darling, the book’s much better than the film/movie!’

I mean, why not just add ‘You’ll be fine once you’ve learned to read’, and have done with it?

And what naturally follows with regard to book snobbery, I’m positive, is an actual fear of being ostracized, cast out of one’s regular, ‘cultivated’ circle like some social leper, but for having openly declared the unthinkable:

‘Well, I actually prefer the film/movie version’ – eternal shame!

Do you know, dear reader, that I’ve yet to hear anyone confess to such? They’d get a big kiss from me, I can tell you; I’m not particular.

Before offering my five such films/movies, which I consider to be far superior to their book versions, I’d just like to say that, with each, I’ve been able to whittle it down to a simple case of, in my case, the film/movie having come before the book; I’ve read the book after seeing the film/movie.

But if we’re so moved by a book, how can anything ever compare?

Well, surely that works both ways. And hence the book snobbery: that s/he may be as uncouth as to have encountered the film/movie before the literary opus…

Here are my five such films/movies, in no particular order:

1: The Railway Children.

Directed by Lionel Jeffries and starring Dinah Sheridan, Jenny Agutter, Sally Thomsett and Bernard Cribbins, The Railway Children may make claim to having moved the toughest of cinema going males to tears on Bobbie’s ‘Daddy, my daddy!’; on her being reunited with her wrongly imprisoned father, amid the mist of a steam railway station platform. E. Nesbit’s novel, a children’s novel, cannot be compared with what Jeffries achieved, without which the book would have fallen into obscurity, I’m sure…

 

2: Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.

Directed by Karel Reis and starring Albert Finney, Shirley Anne Field and Rachel Roberts, comes the 1960 film adaption of Alan Sillitoe’s eponymous debut novel. Whenever I watch this coming-of-age classic, set in the raw, industrial North of England, in the midst of the ‘British New Wave’, a new gritty realism, the “kitchen sink” genre, I’m able to appreciate what Reis’ direction achieved.The film script reads better than the novel, is like a perfect edit, freed of the superfluity I found in Sillitoe’s literary intro…

 

3: The Dresser.

Adapted from Ronald Harwood’s successful 1980 play, The Dresser, directed by Peter – ‘Shakespeare’ – Yates and released in ’83, The film hits home on a number of levels: its wonderfully comic moments, and lines, particularly between Finney and Courtney, actor and dresser; the pervasive sense of pathos running throughout, which is almost tangible.

The play is a funny one, but Finney and Courtney perfect it in film…

 

4: The War of the Worlds.

Directed by Byron Haskin and starring Gene Barry and Ann Robinson, this 1953 American movie is a somewhat loose adaption of H. G. Wells’ 1897 classic of the same name, and I feel that the novel is at times a needlessly, laboriously drawn out affair, whereas the movie adaption, considered to be an allegory of the Cold War, appears to just improve with age. Atmospheric to say the least, and totally unreplicable…

 

 

5: The Last of the Mohicans.

Directed by Michael Mann, the 1992 movie is based, again loosely, on James Fenimore Cooper’s 1826 novel, again of the same name, and is based in the Americas during the Anglo-French colonial war. The film outshines the novel on a whole series of levels, particular in its magnificent conveyance of such qualities, in time of war, as blind loyalty and betrayal; of courage and cowardice; and greed and generosity. Another perfect example of how to edit a book through film…

 

So there you have it. I could go on, could have made my list much, much longer. But you don’t deserve that.

What I’d love from you, however, if ever you have a moment, is to tell of such film/movie adaptations you may have preferred to their literary geneses.

Until then, all the very best for 2018.

Chris,

your literary, theatrical friend

A “Quixotic quest for life’s meaning and purpose, and love” – an extraordinarily intelligent review…

Little over a month ago, with Christmas very much upon us, I was talking with a couple of friends about how, as an author, it feels to consider that, upon the morning in question, December 25th – why I can hear the tune as I write:  ‘December 25th, December 25th! ‘ You know, from the musical production of Scrooge, starring Albert Finney? Anyhow, I was saying that it gave me a warm feeling to know that, while we’re all opening our presents, there are people out there, around about the same time, depending on time-zones and such, unwrapping one of my books – title, author: ‘Chris Rose; looks interesting, must read that, thank you so much!’

It sort of makes it all worthwhile.

Something else, to make it worthwhile, is when an author receives such a review as I’ve had the pleasure to do of late. The kind of review that just keeps coming back, overwhelmingly, whereby, whatever may be happening out there in the big bad world, all is good within, for however long – and yes, cliché I know, but it really does make it all worthwhile.

That is, when an author receives a review demonstrating a truly intelligent reading.

Well, not only have I been lucky enough of late to receive such, for Wood, Talc and Mr. J: We never had it so good…, but it’s cleverly thematic in its praise to boot.

And so I thought I’d share it with you.

Enjoy!

“What a meandering, mesmerizing journey this novel is. It’s poetry in motion, pause and read-again worthy. “Wood, Talc & Mr. J” is unique yet familiar. There’s elegance in its grit, morality in its liberation, pathos in its humor, discipline in its anarchy. It’s confident in its vision whether depicting raw reality or taking off on flights of fancy. This is storytelling in black and white yet vividly descriptive, rollicking and reflective, street-wise with the mark of fine literature in its layered narrative and smart, nimble use of language and form. Its chapters grow out of quotes from ancient Chinese wisdom and classical writers like Blake, Dickens, Stevenson, Shakespeare, Shelly, and Wilde in order to, as Mr. Rose states in the foreword, “play with themes eternal”.

“”Wood, Talc & Mr. J” IS playful, even picaresque. It’s episodic, at times a burlesque rendition of a quixotic quest for life’s meaning and purpose, and love. Like a young Don Quixote, its protagonist Phillip enjoys the ride and the fascinating, challenging, at times farcical characters and situations he meets along the way. He pursues adventure like Don Quixote did “flailing at windmills” and exalting the objects of his desire. Yet, also like Cervantes’ fiction, Mr. Rose’s novel seriously connects to the conflicted, complicated, chaotic human experience of wondering, doubting, rebelling—and searching, especially for what may never be found.

“For me the Britishness of this novel is a bonus to its brilliance and a great part of its charm. I lived in England during the 1970s and 80s, so the settings, cultural and political issues, values, humor and anecdotes are familiar and nostalgic. It’s also reminiscent of my favorite films of the “angry young men” “Look Back in Anger” era of British cinema, so I was prone to envisioning actors like Alan Bates, Albert Finney, Richard Harris and Peter O’Toole slipping into the fascinating roles of working class people that enliven this novel.

“Despite the wanderlust and internal isolation of this novel’s main character, there is such a feeling of hearth and home (a definite place to set out from and return to), with the importance of family and friendship at its core. The historical context is vividly conveyed through characterizations, settings, and current events, and, most essentially, the pop and jazz music playing on the juke box, turntable, radio, or even just in Phillip’s head.

“From its opening lines to its last, “Wood, Talc & Mr. J” is challenging, intelligent, out of the ordinary and beautifully written, full of adventure, lively conversations, compelling action, laughter and tears, an imaginative memoir of past times, people and places Mr. Rose honestly and cleverly transforms into something unforgettable for his readers, too.!”

DM Denton.

* * * * *

Wow ! Here’s a link to a chapter, if you should so wish >>>>>> LINK

Thanks for stopping by, and enjoy.

Chris,

Your literary, theatrical friend

the truth hurts; or it might if I knew what it was – Wood, Talc and Mr. J, a 2nd-person perspective…

I introduced my previous post by once again declaring my fascination for storytelling, and how it might be best achieved. For literature, I also declared a preference for first-person narrative, or point of view, attracted, as I am, by the thought that, like life, we might only ever be privy to segments of the truth. Can an author be reticent with information, whether fiction or not? Can s/he be deluded? Can s/he bend the truth? Can s/he lie? 3d-book-wood-editedIn posing such questions, I thus suggested I only part-knew the first-person narrator, Phillip, of my debut novel, Wood, Talc and Mr. J: We never had it so good… you’ll find the second chapter here – whom I therefore decided to interview, the Phillip of 1978.

I interviewed a character of my own creation, and plan to do more.

My experiment, a philosophical one, a quest for ‘truth’, caused quite a stir in certain quarters: how can a first-person author lie?

Well, perhaps we should begin from the premise that all fiction is a lie.

But how can you not know your own character?

My character is based on my own experiences, someone you might see totally differently…

And on it goes. And I could, go on, but I won’t. ‘Truth’. If ever a word was weighted down with possibilities, then that one is…

I’m reminded of the groundbreaking 1950s film by Kurosawa: Rashomon, a psychological thriller in which a man is murdered and his wife raped. Four different people give four different accounts of the incident; indeed, the film studies the very idea of ‘truth’; and the very power of storytelling. Four people are out for the same thing: to persuade others.

As I type these words, incidentally, my eyes keep rising upward and back to my line of “all fiction is a lie”. It brings to mind how Phillip, somewhere in an early chapter of the book, describes his father:

* * * * *

   The good to come out of it was that it rendered him a real-life character. And I was sure he knew; he’d often laugh at himself. Crowds smothered him up in our local, my friends included, since he’d recount a tale like no other; spice it with a unique passion. And never would he let one of those ‘‘injustices’’ go by if he believed there existed a solution. Although the consequences weren’t always favourable, they made for an extensive repertoire.

* * * * *

Phillip, our fictional character, talks of his fictional dad as being a real-life character”… No, I’m not even going there. What I want to say is that his father would “recount a tale like no other; spice it with a unique passion.”

Just what, then, might that imply? That his dad would bend the truth? Lie, even? And why? To persuade?

narrative-794978_1280In this blog post, all I’d like to do is allow you to read the shortest chapter in the novel. He and Jed have just left a bar on a seaside promenade and are making over the road to a nightclub, where Phillip ends up being something of a war casualty. Or at least that is how Phillip would have us view said situation: might he be exaggerating a tad? Who knows…

Following the passage, I’ll attempt to rewrite it from Jed’s point of view, Phillip’s so-called “best friend”. What I should point out is that, in doing so, I’ll be by no means dogmatic; I am not dictating what Jed is really thinking, for that would be impossible. I do but conjecture:

* * * * *

   April hauled ex-Macca’s ex-body, directing our army via the fairground, supposing her beguiling beam would secure that crucial last ride, even if the boys had put the toys away half an hour back. As all but two of us fell for it, it was a sight to behold, evoking flashes of dizzy Disney scenes – that our band of tearaways should sprout tails from trench coat vents for their excesses!

   Jed was taken more by life on our side of the road, his eyes reflecting a medley of promenade hue. ‘Look at this lot,’ he said, nipping my question of where on earth Ilkeston was in the bud. ‘None of ’em have any convicts of their own.’

   ‘Do you mean convictions?’

   He didn’t hear. But asked had I noticed how ‘Mod’ and ‘Ted’ rhymed. He barred my smirk with a hand: ‘Three letters, ending in d…’

   The rhetoric was cut short when someone turned to meet us dead on, pressed us in a North-eastern accent to offer our allegiance, until the glaze of anxiety was snuffed by a frothing beer bottle, a stick-grenade of sorts, impacting against his head, granting Jed a light ale-blood facial. The beggar collapsed into my arms. The bottle crashed onto the kerb.

   Screams of a different nature rippled like a breeze of bitter change, and yet I couldn’t put my finger on its source. Groups silhouetted, an approach, a retreat; a car shunned dug-in feet, the to-ing and fro-ing. And then, in squadron-like re-formation, on a general’s growl, all became as plain as a size ten boot: ‘Skinhead! Skinhead!’

   There was something malevolent in the way they did that.

   Jed yanked my hood as I laid my patient to the ground. He dragged me down a street leading to the park, safest bet, but for a division of our craven copraphagics catching on, screeching forth their personal excreta.

   I took the knee-high wall Red Rum-style, only to recognise that one of us had committed an error of judgement: a step, a day out-stepped, my grand-national winner falling to dust at this last hurdle; a frantic thought on which to cling, this short-straw-of-a-moment million. And so again I placed a glossy sole upon a Jolly Fisherman’s sun-bathed stairway, in past imitation or practice for the future – I had the world at my feet after all…

    Teeth penetrated the footwear in Morph-ish splatter. Courage cared for the spine.

   “You’re going to fall flat on your face,” echoed a warning, before a nervous laugh above…

© Chris Rose

* * * * *

Romantic. He paints a picture, does Phillip.

raebgwAs for Jed, I don’t know what to make of him, he’s quite a character, though rarely gives clues as to his thoughts. That said, the Phillip of 1978 would have us believe – particularly during the interview of my last post – that there’s little else to know about him, beneath the surface, that what you see is what you get; Jed worries about, and is scared of, nothing. This point of view hardly differs with the one of today’s Phillip either, as he looks back… Or is the Phillip of today simply asking you to make up your own mind?

As a mere exercise in creative writing, I’ll now playfully offer another version of the above scene, from Jed’s point of view:

* * * * *

As we come out of the pub, April does as I’ve told her: leads everyone off to the fairground. And I can’t believe everyone except Phillip follows on; it’s only him I need to get rid of – that’s the point, he sticks to me like glue at times. The gear Vicky’s promised me in the bar’s the business, and she’s ready to give it me half price along with a lay – talk about my birthday! But what do I do, with Phillip clinging on?

And as always I end up taking it out of somebody else, like the lot in front doing all the mouthing. ’Thing is, I’m totally gone on barbiturate and so start slurring. I mean to say something about ‘convictions’ but it comes out wrong – and I should never bring poetry into it! And he pulls his smug look – God, I feel like smacking him at this point! But someone in front cops a beer bottle from nowhere, and before we know it we’ve got skins giving it the big boys.

So we decide to take a side street leading to the park – too many skinheads for my liking. Some of ’em follow on, and then Phill just jumps over this wall and completely mistimes it – this skinhead thought it was hilarious; he asks me for a cigarette and then the coppers turn up so he goes over the wall as well.

Phill, talk about fall flat on your face…

* * * * *

Well, I don’t know what you make of that but Jed does tell a different story, or what you might call a variation of the same story. I like the stream of consciousness effect, in the way he draws us in with his use of present tense… And I just can’t help but wonder how big that wall is in ‘reality’, and who is it that laughs once he’s “mistimes” his jump.

Again, I could go on but I’ll refrain.

Things may not always be as they seem, the moral of this post may be. And that there are rewards in taking a different perspective from time to time, either in book-form or everyday life…

Chris,

Your literary, theatrical friend

when third-person narrative just won’t do; a first interview with one of my many literary – character – heroes…

For those of you coming here for the first time, welcome, and I hope you’ll come back.

Having recently read a post by the talented and charming author Anna Belfrage, a post entitled Of leading ladies and gate-crashing male protagonists, so inspired was I that I’ve decided to revamp an old post of my own, as of the above title, from my previous website – it can also be found residing in my book 22 daydreams (or Wood, Talc & Mr. J, my social media rambllings thereof)

Without further ado, then, meet Phillip Rowlings, around the time of his debut, and interviewee of his very own author.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

For my regular readers, you may have noticed over the months that I’ve developed something of a fascination for storytelling – I say “developed” like it were something new; it’s more a case of my having studied the idea via my blog posts, by putting it into writing.

As far as literature is concerned, over the years, I’ve frequently debated with fellow-readers my love for first-person narrative – I’ve also felt a little awkward doing so, and always will; as with all things, I like books to be in their place, otherwise it seems a bit self-indulgent. I come off a loser more often than not, for being outnumbered by lovers of the omniscient author, those of us who prefer the narrator to have power to delve in and out of the characters’ minds at will, so as to keep we readers in the loop.

3d-book-wood-editedI tend to be misinterpreted quite a lot, too, in the course of these debates, to leave people with the impression I’m all black and white: that I’ll only read books narrated in first-person.

Wrong.

Moreover, I appreciate the arguments for third-person, and I’ve sometimes read third-person books that, afterwards, have had me believe I read it in the first, whereby the narrator has portrayed a particular character so skilfully that I’ve come to know him/her quite well, and so judged the events from his/her point of view.

But all I’d like to say for this blog post, regarding first-person narrative, is that I am simply more intrigued by what I don’t know about characters. We can never truly discern what a character – fictional or real life – is thinking at any given moment, without s/he endeavouring to explain. Which, then, prompts the questions:

In a novel, how do characters, excluding the first-person narrator, perceive other characters and events?

Each of them would have a different story to tell.

How, then, do other characters regard the narrator?

Each would depict him/her quite differently.

Mmm. What, then, is a first-person narrator not telling us? About people, situations and events past and present – even without telling lies or bending the truth?

– it would appear my questions are becoming rhetorical.

We might ask further, how does a narrator perceive certain people, situations and events, and why? In other words, how does a narrator want to see them?

Still not convinced? Have I at least got you thinking? Here’s a last question – I didn’t set out to interview you: it’s one thing to wonder how a first-person narrator sees him/herself, but how does s/he want you, the reader, to see him/herself?

tdyjtj6yj786fThese are ideas which fascinate me regarding first-person narrative, even when writing my debut novel, Wood, Talc and Mr. J: We never had it so good… And as a consequence, in this blog post, I’d like to get to know more about Phillip Rowlings, the first-person narrator.

You may think it odd, a writer not knowing his own creation, but I believe that is one of the reasons for which we write, in our endeavours to make sense of the world.

I’ve found that I don’t know Phillip Rowlings any more than you will. Besides, had I believed I knew him from the outset, maybe I wouldn’t have written about him. And so, in order to try and get to know him that bit better, I – CR – am going to throw a few questions his way, in the hope of being more enlightened.

Possibly you’ll then be intrigued enough to buy the book, too.

* * * * *

CR:    ‘I can’t begin to tell you, Phillip, how times have changed since your day – which, admittedly, I’ve not yet worked out if it’s for better or worse. But without giving me one-word answers – because I know how up-or-down you can be, and that it’s all going to depend on which of the two Phillips has turned up – could you tell me a little bit about how you see living in the north of England in 1978, and what makes you tick?’

Phillip:    ‘You’ve read Wood, Talc and Mr. J and you don’t know what makes me tick?’

CR:    ‘Tell me a bit about life before Wood, Talc and Mr. J.’

Phillip:    ‘Mmm, it’s all very black and white, really.’

CR:    ‘You don’t say! Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you; but it’s just how I’ve described you in the synopsis. You’re shyer than I expected you to be, though.’

Phillip:    ‘Yeah, I don’t know if that’s the best way to be, I’m still trying to work that one out. My dad reckons so, with his “humility is next to godliness”, ’heard that one more than once. But he’s got me calling my boss by his last name: Mr. Alcrap. And I’m not sure he deserves it; I think he’s exploiting it, but I’ve taken that road now, so… I feel like I can’t stand up for myself anymore, if I ever could. In my dad’s world, it’s that only he can ever be right; he has this way of saying things, and you believe him while ever he’s there; he’s so persuasive…’

CR:    ‘So how do you see it, from back there, in ’78 and before?’

Phillip:    ‘Well, I’m kind of scared of gettin’ old, I…’

CR:    ‘You’re seventeen!’

Phillip:    ‘Yeah, I just don’t want to get much older. I want things to stay as they are. I know people say you have your whole life ahead of you but… Either that or I want it to be the early 70s again; I want those Motown tunes to be all comin’ out for the first time again; there was somethin’ about those summers, they were magical… But at the same time, in winter I’d walk the streets and cry… I hated stopping in that much, but other kids seemed to be okay with it, and I hated the dark streets, colourless; housing estates all look the same…’

CR:    ‘Has that gotten better, being seventeen?’

Phillip:    ‘Yeah, but only to a degree. There’s the pub, but then there’s approaching twenty; I just can’t imagine it. I can’t ever imagine being married; ’can’t imagine finding anybody.’

CR:    ‘We all feel that way at that age…’

Phillip:    ‘I’ll be doing all-nighters when I’m 35!’

CR:    ‘You and your Northern Soul music. You don’t strike me as someone with much ambition. ’Not meaning to embarrass you again, and I won’t ask you one of those awful questions, like they do in interviews, you know: ‘Where do you see yourself in five years?’’

Phillip:   ‘Do they?’

CR:    ‘Oh, you’ll see. But I gather you hate your factory job. Have you ever thought of doing anything else?’

Phillip:    ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster, and I can’t get off; like my future’s been worked out by someone else. I couldn’t take school too seriously. And I can’t even say I was easily led, it was like there was only ever ‘the now’, I had to enjoy it while I could. I wouldn’t even wear my teeth-brace at school, which would’ve straightened my teeth, because I didn’t want people – girls – to see it. I wish I’d worn it now…’

CR:    ‘So what did you want to do in life?’

Phillip:    ‘’Don’t know. Escape. Live on a beach on the east coast. That’s it. You know, my dad could get so upset about coming home from holidays, and I just wonder now… you know… I’m looking for something in life, I just don’t know what it is… But I hope it won’t be here, I can’t imagine it. I hate this city, this existence!’

CR:    ‘What do the others think of you, your gang; your Soul people?’

Phillip:    ‘We’d die for each other. You can’t understand that, cos you’re either into soul music or you’re not, you can’t describe it to someone. Going to Wigan Casino, I suppose it’s like going to church, only much greater. In fact, that’s how we call it.’

CR:    ‘All of you?’

Phillip:    ‘Yeah. Some of us smile when we say it, but we mean it…’

CR:    ‘And how do you feel about things politically? I mean, there’ve been all sorts of upheavals in your decade, haven’t there? Three-day weeks, strikes here, there and everywhere. Do you envisage a first woman-prime minister? As in Margaret Thatcher?’

Phillip:    ‘Maybe, yeah. No. I know who she is, but I can’t really get my head round it. People hate her at work, but I can’t seem to take any of it in, I couldn’t care less, I’m too busy just longing for the weekend. My dad can’t make his mind up about any of it, but rants both ways.

CR:    ‘How do you see your best friend’s drug problem?’

Phillip:    ‘Problem?’

CR:    ‘Jed’s drug problem, as I’ve worked out reading the book?’

Phillip:    ’Not sure it’s a problem, Jed can handle anythin’. He has this sense of humour that – God, I hate saying this, so please keep it to yourself, but, I sometimes get scared of stuff, and maybe that’s why I don’t take many drugs – that and the fact that my mum and dad, well, I just couldn’t do it to them, couldn’t hurt ’em… Besides I think my dad would kill me… Then again… But Jed, he kind of fears nothing; he can just burst into laughter, even if he’s about to get his head kicked in, and people just let him off…

CR:    ‘Do you want to be Jed? I honestly don’t want to embarrass you, but you can tell me. Would you say you love him?’

Phillip:    ‘How do you mean? I love women…’

CR:    ‘No, but you can love him in a different way. Okay, what about Nathalie, you’ve only just met her, with regard to this interview. Could you love her?’

Phillip:    ‘It’s kind of… that rollercoaster thing again: I just don’t feel like any of it’s in my hands, if I’m honest. Maybe I love her, but I love Soul music, and do the all-nighters, and you can’t have both, it’s what we’re about. I know I keep saying this, but you could never understand…’

CR:    ‘Funny, you use quite a bit of rollercoaster imagery in your story; I’ve talked about your recurring themes in the synopsis. But who says you can’t do both, your friends, Jed, who? And are you intimidated by her background, since she’s very middle-class?’

Phillip:    ‘No-one says it, it just is! And no, she could never intimidate me… No. She’s mad about me.’

CR:    ‘So where do you see the sequel, if ever they’ll be a sequel?

Phillip:    ‘Well, hopefully, it’ll be about me still being young. If I do end up writing about me being 35 or something, I only hope things won’t have changed too much. Except me living by the sea of course. I could do portraits for holidaymakers…’

CR:    ‘Thanks, Phillip, I think I’ll end it there, while we’re winning. And thanks, you’ve argued your points with vigour – I’m not so sure I agree with all you say, or even understand it all, but then, as you yourself state; me being an outsider and all… But it’s been interesting.’

Phillip:    ‘Thanks. Keep The Faith, as we say!

* * * * *

Well, that was interesting.

I’m not so sure what you made of that, but I’ve come away not so much more enlightened as feeling I’ve, at least, scratched the surface – I don’t really know what I expected but, I have to say, I’m now quite looking forward to a second interview; Phillip wears a mask at the best of times, I feel it, and that there’s so much more going on than meets the eye, between those words on a page…

backAnd this is a character today, looking back to then, to those heady days. How does today’s Phillip see things as they were? How does Phillip want you to see things his way? Or does Phillip hope you’ll pick up on his irony and see all for yourself?

One last question: will all depend on you, the reader, on where you are, figuratively speaking, in life, thus dictating your reading?

But isn’t it fascinating stuff? Sorry, I didn’t mean to ask any more questions.

Once Wood, Talc and Mr. J: We never had it so good… is released, which is going to be very soon now, I’ll interview Phillip again. It’ll be an open post, whereby you, the reader, will also have the opportunity to ask Phillip as many questions as you like, once having read the book, which I hope you’ll enjoy enough to want to do so.

Thanks for reading,

Chris,

Your literary, theatrical friend