Autumn wind. It struck me, a loose, dusty slab of it, as I
emerged from my small hilltop residence. The manipulation of the bronzed leaves
in the air, like puppetry, made for a remarkable tableau: brown, against grey,
against my brown study. I’ve been thinking about brown a lot lately. The brown
of churches. The brown of tea leaves. The brown of my mahogany table, weary
with the weight of unread papers, aged with the stains of red wine, of
solitude, of vegetable oil, of banana smoothie, of consciousness and of meaning.
Ah, meaning. Hmm. I let out a
long sigh, and brood a little longer. How the sands of time have gathered about
my feet. Do all things pass? Yes, I suppose so. Geez.
With these powerful reflexions
completed, I began my brave march into the dying embers of the morning.
Praise for the opening to my brilliant post-modern thriller.
- “Uncompromising and lethally understated,
Walter’s prose skims gracefully across the face of a profound lake of meaning.
The opening to his brilliant post-modern thriller is superb.” – The Times
- “There is no combination of 142 words that could
possibly deliver more intensity[…] This post-modern thriller’s brilliant opening
delivers a visceral blow to any who dare read it. The age of writing is over[…]
Walter has clocked it.” – The Daily
Telegraph
- “The opening to this post-modern thriller[…] is
brilliant. Walter’s bravery in tackling the heavyweight intellectual dilemmas
of our age – implicitly, mind, in riddles and in paradoxes lying just beneath
the surface – is a war cry to a generation of intellectuals.” – The Washington Post
“It gets a little[…] brilliant[…]
towards the end.” – The New York Times
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