By Craig Lancaster
Edward Stanton is a guy hurtling headlong towards heart age. His psychological affliction has led him to be sequestered in his small condominium in a small urban, the place he retains his distance from the skin global and the oldsters from whom he's principally estranged. For the main half, Edward sticks to objects he can count number on...and issues he can count number. yet over the process 25 days (or six hundred hours, as Edward prefers to examine it) numerous occasions puncture the partitions Edward has equipped round himself. in any case, he faces a call: Open his lifestyles to event and care for the thrill and heartaches that include it, or stay at the back of his closed door, a solitary soul
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Extra resources for 600 Hours of Edward
His hopes, high and unquenchable as they always appeared to be, were cut short by his lingering illness and his early death. There remain only a few documentary fragments that testify to the boldness of his intentions. His one published attempt at a short story, "How Tom Snored," is in my opinion quite unworthy of his abilities. It is impossible to say in what direction his undoubted literary powers would have found their true outlet. It is certain that if he had lived in the full enjoyment of normal health the Journal in its present outward form or as a narrative of his career and an unreserved record of his personal reflections would never have been published.
Here, even the birds and flowers seem soiled. It makes me impatient to see them — they are indifferent, they do not know. Those that do not know are pathetic, and those knowing are miserable. It is ghostly to live in a house with a little child at the best of times—now at the worst of times a child's innocence haunts me always. — I shall not easily forget yesterday (Sunday). It was just like Mons Sunday. The spring shambles began on Thursday in brilliant summer weather. Yesterday also was fine, the sky cloudless, very warm with scarcely a breeze.
Freedom ? These are things of the spirit. Every man is free if he will. Yet who is going to lend an ear to the words of a claustrated paralytic ? I expect I'm wrong, and I am past hammering out what is right. I must anaesthetise thought and accept without comment. My mind is in an agony of muddle, not only about this world but the next. ). In the tempest of misery of the past three weeks, this fact at odd intervals has shone out like a bar of stormy white light. By September I anticipate a climax as a set-off to the achievement of my book.
600 Hours of Edward by Craig Lancaster