The Confidential Agent (2001)
“The lorries came in from the eastern counties aiming at Covent Garden. In a big leafless Bloomsbury square a cat walked homewards from some alien rooftop. The city, to D., looked extraordinarily exposed and curiously undamaged; nobody stood in a queue; there was no sign of a war except himself. He carried his infection past the closed shops, a tobacconist’s, a twopenny library. He knew the number he wanted, but he put his hand in his pocket to check it – the notebook was gone. So they had got something for their trouble, but it had contained nothing but his address that was of any significance to them – a recipe he had noticed in a French paper for making the most of cabbage; a quotation he had found somewhere from an English poet of Italian origin which had expressed a mood connected with his own dead: ‘. . . the beat Following her daily of thy heart and feet, How passionately and irretrievably In what fond flight, how many ways and days.’ There was also a letter from a French quarte...rly on the subject of the Song of Roland, referring to an old article of his own.MoreLess
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