If it were possible to talk to the unborn, one could never explain to them how it feels to be alive, for life is washed in the speechless real.
“I was cleaning out the pigsty at a farm in Wales, where my mother had rented a room, when the results of my final school exam were handed to me by the postman, along with the news that I had a state scholarship to Oxford. I had waited for this letter for so many weeks that I had abandoned hope, deci”