From Hampstead to Clapham Junction, we’re on the road again with the much-imitated wandering scribe. Long may his legs hold out
Someone should invent the literary equivalent of an Instagram filter to turn workaday prose Iain Sinclairean. It would calculate a rapt noirish vision from ordinary ambulatory sights such as that of a car-squashed bird: “A first-light pigeon catastrophe at the crown of a frosted road.” It would plug into a prodigious textual database, enabling the user to generate, on demand, erudite references to centuries of place-specific fact and fiction. And it would have a slider for varying the levels of sarcasm appropriate to mentionings of new-build flats, bankers and hipster pseudo-artisans.
Related: The Ginger line: Iain Sinclair on the London Overground
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