David Halliday: 48 books

I met Matthew Chambers in a cafe in a small village of Hamme, Belgium. We talked on several occasions and always I had the impression that he was a man who was being pursued. I knew not by whom. And then one day he was not at the cafe at our accustomed time. Weeks passed. No Matthew. And then one morning this manuscript appeared on my door step.

Anger and humor. Burning like a furnace in my head. The year my mother died. Poems from my tumor.

It’s a good place to think. The bench. To mull over ideas. That’s my madness. Everywhere I look I see patterns. Patterns are someone’s idea, someone’s creation. Order is recklessly rearranging the furniture around us. Old buildings being replaced by new buildings. Old people dropping dead...

I have these awful thoughts. In the middle of the night. When I can’t get to sleep. Like a slide show. The planet. Devastated. Hardly a sign of life except for the odd building on the landscape. And the sky is a deep purple. Silver clouds drift by. And the land is black. Except for the ditches where...

Jack is a world inside a world. A dream inside a dream. Einstein inside Newton. Hemingway inside Aristophanes. A noun inside a verb. An idea inside an acorn. It is the knot that we call consciousness. Jack exists in a different dimension. Somewhere between reality and fantasy. Between the waking state...

Two factions of children in separate schools find themselves at odds. One is humiliated but rises to take vengeance on the other. It was war. And the children loved it.