‘I suppose it was conceited of me. But it was fun. And I felt like getting a bit of my own back on some of the people who’d conned and flattered me into wasting all those years.’
In this wry, piercing short story from one of the greatest of all British postwar writers, an ageing poet considers the value of his art – and of the critics who’ve found genius in it. Then, with his final work, he exercises a unique revenge . . .
