![]() ![]() So we arranged to meet and I stepped off the train in Avignon. The last time I saw her, Christine gave me the Polish-English dictionary covered in her notes from which she’d once gone about learning the language. One of her three husbands, Jerzy, from whom she had remained separated for many years, but with whom she was still occasionally in touch, was a Polish poet. When I arranged to meet her during a crackling phone call in which she seemed more distant than I could imagine (it turned out later she was also trying to watch the tennis), she immediately became interested in my surname. From the start names were so very important. Christine the experimenter and Christine a woman who made me laugh until it hurt. ![]() I’m not entirely sure as I don’t really mix in the circles that would say they know and although I think she’d be very glad to be thought of like that, to me she will always be a scream. Since then, probably starting well before then, as I think I was jumping into some kind of a slip-stream generated by the interest of people like Stuart Kelly, Christine (I will use her first name as that’s what I ended up doing) has become rehabilitated as one of our leading experimental writers. ![]() I’m on an early morning train heading north through Kent as the sun rises on my right, contemplating another journey from over ten years ago, when I travelled to a little village near Avignon to meet the writer Christine Brooke-Rose. ![]()
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