Inside the yardkeeper’s shed it was as if the objects of his life were shaping themselves around the fact of his death, around his physical absence. There was an old paint-spattered wooden chair, polished by many sittings. It was crammed in next to a folding card table, the baize threadbare and stained. The samovar on it seemed to possess an air of mournful disappointment. Chipped cups milled around it without purpose. The sawdust had settled on the floor, around an assortment of bricks and logs. The bottom of a barrel was propped up against one of the shed’s sides. Life continued only in the cobwebs that grew heedless over the tools and tins of his occupation.
I’d love to read this book, and Roger’s other St Petersburg books, but I’m writing my own St Petersburg novel at the moment and I’d feel happier about stealing from non-fiction sources. I’ll certainly be getting around to it once the first draft of mine is completed.
(Via Roger’s plog.)