It is one of the paltry niceties of modern literary life that somehow irritate me. Have you noticed how long novels can be! They go on for ever, and nothing ever happens. Not only that but if by some oversight the novelist allows themselves the frisson of excitement that comes from allowing something to happen, it always happens slowly. I despair!
A poem is fugacious
A novel is interminable
But the hero of my tale, as Anthony reminded me, is a fine fellow who set out, single-handedly, to remedy this. Only he did so by accident.
Port Naain has a few epitomators, nobody really knows how many. Most epitomes are written for students. Faced with reading the dozen thick volumes recommended for their course the average student panics and turns to drink. But just as they’re sobering up along comes the accomplished epitomator. They’ll clap the…
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