Inspiration for
Delirium: The Rimbaud Delusion
PART FIVE
Terence Tanfield
Terence Tanfield was a controversial figure amongst beta readers of the novel. Some loved him, some hated him. Some said he did not belong in the book at all.
Terence Tanfield is a cynical old man who manages at last to find some tranquillity. To me he is a reflection both of what Rimbaud might have been like had he lived to old age, and of what Andrea could have become without Albert’s intervention.
Terence Tanfield muses on the big questions of life and though he believes in nothing, cannot quite help himself from wishing that he did.
~
Excerpt from
Delirium: The Rimbaud Delusion
Terence Tanfield's Blog
Still on the Hunt for the Spiritual...
I thought it was all over this morning. The End.
Brain
was still functioning, just, but the old bones declined to join in
the fun. Thought I was going to have to wait for what’s-er-name,
little blonde bird. Nursey. She comes to get me up and get me ready
but I always beat her to it. Francesca Hutton, Or Fran-tchess-ka
Uh’un,
as she says, spitting it out with a great smacking of tongue and
stopping of glottis. As if she’s tasting her own name and finding
it unpleasant. Managed to shuffle my bits together before she turned
up though, and rose to greet the dawn. Deo
Gratis!
Decided
to go through all my files again in case I’ve missed something.
There are clues in there; there have to be. One day—is this a vain
hope?—one day I’ll find something that will lead me to the prize.
I know they went back to France. The papers. After their sojourn in
Gairmany, Düsseldorf
or Dresden or wherever it was.
I have wind of them later, being sold at auction. Where
is that note? Here: A packet of documents changed hands in 1952 for
an undisclosed sum. They must be the same ones. There can’t be two
sets of missing Rimbaud manuscripts doing the rounds.
It’s not a lot to go on. Tenuous. Still, a suggestion
that the chase is not in vain. That somewhere, at some time, some
bloody documents did indeed exist.
Fran-tchess-ka
left me some soup. Well, she opened the bloody tin and sloshed it
into the pan. Down chew forget it Mr T,
she squeaks, yoonow wotchor laike.
Carer, that’s what she is. Not a nurse. Employed to sling the gaga
into their wheelchairs of a morning. To
tyke em
dahner shops for a breffa fresh air.
And mop up
their drool. I have not yet resorted to drooling.
~
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