For the first thirty years of my life, I lived within a one-mile radius of Willesden Green Tube Station. It's true I went to college-I even moved to East London for a bit but such interludes were brief. I soon returned to my little corner of North West London. Then suddenly, quite abruptly, I left not just the city but England itself. First for Rome, then Boston, and then my beloved New York, where I stayed ten years. When friends asked why I'd left the country, I'd sometimes answer with a joke: Because I don't want to write a historical novel. Perhaps it was an in-joke: only other English novelists really understood what I meant by it. And there were other, more obvious reasons. My English father had died. My Jamaican mother was pursuing a romance in Ghana. I myself had married an Irish poet who liked travel and adventure and had left the island of his birth at the age of eighteen. My ties to England seemed to be evaporating. I would not say I was entirely tired of London. No, I was not yet-in Samuel
This story is from the July 10 - 17, 2023 (Double Issue) edition of The New Yorker.
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This story is from the July 10 - 17, 2023 (Double Issue) edition of The New Yorker.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
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President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.
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