‘You are but a poor, misfit, outlier like me, minstrel man. How can you possibly take these shackles from around my neck and bust me out of this cage? For where is the prized key you say you have to free me from these chains?’ asked the thief.
‘Right here,’ said the minstrel pointing to his head. ‘For I will regale you with parables, with tales of poverty and politics, of mystery and magic, of love lost, and of the lost world. You will journey to Paris to Pokhara and to Palestine. I will show you evil. I will show you joy and sex and subversion enough to get these books banned in certain jurisdictions.
‘Some say my stories conjure up the remnants of Bukowski, the ghost of Chekhov and the spectre of Kafka. I assure you. You will revel in their strange variety. For if it is truly the spice of life then these two volumes, Will Work For Food and No, It’s Not Him, are a veritable vindaloo in a goldmine of treasured treats.’
‘The stories?’ sought the thief. ‘They will release me?’
‘They're the key to letting your imagination go. For it is from there that we will all be set free.’ Â