![]() Durrell had been getting letters from frustrated readers all over the world complaining of the difficulty of finding copies of his Alexandria novels, and the moment seemed well chosen for twitting his London publisher, the distinguished firm of Faber and Faber, for its failure to anticipate the world-wide demand which his books had aroused. ![]() “I’ll sit in the front hall reading the morning papers, and I’ll use the hour or so before the directors turn up to cover the lavatory walls with these clippings about my books - in fourteen different languages!” “I’ll be in front of my publisher’s the moment the doors open tomorrow morning at nine,” he explained, a mischievous smile puckering his warm, weather-beaten face. A scarf was loosely Hung around his neck, and the pockets of his tweed jacket bulged with what proved to be a thin volume of Chinese philosophy and a fistful of newspaper clippings. ![]() He had, as ever, that faintly wind-blown air of a seaman who has just stepped ashore from a rocking dinghy. THE last time I saw Lawrence Durrell in Paris he was on his way to London, where he was to pick up one of his daughters for the Christinas holidays. ![]()
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