Well, the forty-seven minute writing bursts continue, with a break at three fifty-four for a spot of rook hunting. Turgidovsky loves rooks deeply, more deeply than any human he has ever met, yet admits that ‘guilt is a powerful drug’ – which is why he shoots them, taking care to ensure that their death is slow, painful and perfect literary source material. He also regrets – and, in turn, derives pleasure – from stamping on shrews, elbowing calves and picking off wrens with a bow and arrow he made as a child.
It doth arrive as no great surprise that dusk is Turgidovsky’s favourite time of day. ‘It brings out the dreamer in me,’ he once wrote: a statement that might just as well be translated as ‘it brings out the nightmarist’ (if only that were a word). He likes – or likes to dislike – watching the ‘gold git of a sun’ set whilst standing knee-deep in a trough of pig’s urine and munching on pinecones. Don’t we all?
For dinner Turgidovsky treats himself to his second least favourite foodstuff. I cannot say what this consists of. Marshmallows, maybe?