I think it’s one of the truest satires the Coen Brothers came up with, the story of the writer going nuts, in Barton Fink. Lost to the world of the mind, forgotten by the powers that be in Hollywood, his mind ended up fighting everything and everyone. It was like that three years ago, with love, friendship and editorial support retracted by my publisher in New York, as friendships here were shatted. With a touch of Dr Faustus too, spurred on by the raw energy of Mephistopheles, gazing in the magic mirror of memory and emotion, but ending up with fear in a handful of dust, weaker eyesight, and Helen of Troy gone off to her Upper Flip-Side, for happier days in publishing, Greengrass’s and Central Park. What a joke then when connected people, supposedly grown up or loving people, supporting each other too, branded me as the devil incarnate, or some kind of literary terrorist, alone in a flat in London, threatening ‘Attorney’s notices in New York and London ‘, and virtually demanding a novel about Polar Bears was delivered in an armoured car. It is absolutely unheard of, or maybe it’s not, but fact’s certainly stranger than fiction. I thought they believe the word has no strange power at all, except to make money. Wake up, New York and see the whole, or believe in the stories you edit and the writers you buy! DCD
BEING BARTON FINK STILL!
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