Chatwin, Bruce – On the Black Hill
Why is it that this, the only fiction that Chatwin is considered to have written is, actually, a family biography whilst his travelogues and commentaries are almost completely fiction?
Very prettily written (I understand that editors used to line up to commit suicide every time Chatwin finished a book – perhaps I exagerate slightly here), it does (in a way that is almost unique to the author) take you to a different time and place.
Who cares about Chatwin’s strange, strange personal life (apart, that is, from me)?
He has (or rather, had) the writer’s true (and only) trick.
The ability to suspend disbelief.
All the best
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