‘I should not have to be decent,’ I hissed. ‘I should not have to be nice – God knows, you have not one ounce of compassion or propriety in your bones, and yet you’ve made it this far! I should not have to wait and grovel and plead and crush and cut away at myself until I’m small enough to fit at the margins, in the footnotes! You make all the world a game, where you decide the victor and you decide the rules, then pat yourself on the back for winning every single time! Yes, you are clever, Mr Clarke. Yes, you are talented. Every man is Shakespeare when he’s the only one in London with a pen.
