The Paradox Of The English Country House

Everybody Wanted To Be The Hero Of Their Own Story. Nobody Wanted To Be Comic Relief.

When I Was 35 I Realized That I Was Still Thinking A Lot About What It Would Be Like To Go To Narnia. To Really Go - Not Just In A Daydream, Or In A Children's Book, But What It Would Actually Feel Like, Physically, Psychologically, Every Other Way. The Idea Was Haunting Me.

You Didn’t Get The Quest You Wanted, You Got The One You Could Do.

Quentin Had An Obsolete Sailing Ship That Had Been Raised From The Dead. He Had Psychotically Effective Swordsman And An Enigmatic Witch-queen. It Wasn't The Fellowship Of The Ring, But Then Again He Wasn't Trying To Save The World From Sauron, He Was Trying To Perform A Tax Audit On A Bunch Of Hick Islanders.

As A Teenager In Brooklyn Quentin Had Often Imagined Himself Engaged In Martial Heroics, But After This He Knew, As A Cold Immutable Fact, That He Would Do Anything Necessary, Sacrificing Whatever Or Whomever He Had To, To Avoid Risking Exposure To Physical Violence. Shame Never Came Into It. He Embraced His New Identity As A Coward. He Would Run In The Other Direction. He Would Lie Down And Cry And Put His Arms Over His Head Or Play Dead. It Didn't Matter What He Had To Do, He Would Do It And Be Glad.