In the last year that we could travel the world, 2019, I left my partner one night and crossed Manhattan on the subway to see Deborah Levy read from her new novel, The Man Who Saw Everything, at Brooklyn’s Center for Fiction. My partner had run the New York City Marathon the day before, and he was recovering at the hotel with enormous bags of ice strapped to each leg.
Attending this event, with an author who by then had written two parts of her memoirs—which seemed to me like textbooks for writing and existing—was best done as a solo endeavour. I needed to run my own race.
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