The bloom of Privet
Baxter's finding it hard to believe that during the Second world War My Landlady was paid good money to help get Hannah Arendt out of France into Spain and onto a ship that took her to the Caribbes and from there like so many she was smuggled into a xenophobic USA where she found a new home in New York City. He can't actually remember this Landlady, nor can he remember my life as a car thief, or the strange affair I had with a Doctor of Sociology while being badly used as a practice doll by one of her students who was in training for La Cindy and due to inherit a Flower Boat. I know, it's all very confusing, but even more disappointing Baxter had developed a persistent and irrational fear of Plato's Ideal Forms. And, thanks to Baxter's unhealthy attachment to the wisdom of our Spleen this phobia has been recently transferred to postmodernists generally, he's tired of hearing about them.
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