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Mysteries by Knut Hamsun5/21/2023 I looked at the cover: it was about superheroes, The Watchmen. ‘You should read… hang on…’ he rummaged on the messy kitchen table, ‘…this’. Maybe I could read something to pass the time? There were always copies of The Evening Standard discarded on a seat you could read, but I quickly found this ‘newspaper’ was unbearably smug, making the journey even more painful. Given this environment, an escape was needed. Not only was I travelling from one depressingly drab and dodgy suburb to another, I was doing so 100 feet under the soil, rattling along at 50 miles per hour in a grimy Victorian carriage, with fellow passengers who either determinedly ignored everyone around them, or – probably due to taking too many drugs or too little medication - unselfconsciously made themselves impossible for anyone around them to ignore them. As a newcomer to London culture of the late 1980s, my mind couldn’t cope with the boring and irritating journey of an hour and 20 minutes from the depths of South West London to see my Irish friends in the far reaches of North East London. Mysteries was the first book I read since leaving school several years previously.
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