Egotist ergo sum

AT THE BEGINNING OF THE MONTH, I burst my chains of domestic bondage, Samson-like, and escaped hotfoot to Soho to sip white wine with ruffians to celebrate ’s excellent new book, . Jones is one of these prolific coves who churns out a hefty volume a year, but this year he has excelled himself, with a supernatural novella out just in time for Halloween, too. I admire his rate of industry but do occasionally fear for his sanity. Many a good man has gone to the bad thinking medievally. Look at Marcellus Wallace in for proof.