Jura, April 1947. It was his third day back on the island but the first he had managed to get out of bed. He knew what he had to do: transfer to paper the ceaseless, grinding monologue that had been working through his mind since . . . when? His days at the BBC? The betrayal in Barcelona? The discovery of the proles in Wigan? Those glorious summers of his youth? Prep school and H.G. Wells? He couldn't remember; perhaps the obsession had always been with him.
- From The Last Man in Europe by Dennis Glover