He dallied with some short stories instead, and when they proved similarly unrewarding he fell back on poetry, the last resort of the literary scoundrel. His task from year to year entailed compiling a list of those who had either relinquished or abandoned the housing provided for them by the council, and in doing so had left their accounts in arrears. Instead he resembled those narrators in fiction who observe the lives of others, existing as dowels upon which plots hang like coats until the time comes for the true actors of the book to assume them. Yet perhaps there was in his interiority something that rendered him if not sexless, then somewhat oblivious to the reality of relations with the opposite sex, an impression strengthened by the collective memory of what had occurred — or not occurred — with the girl from accounts. Berger was far less dull than he appeared. He spent his days outlining his proposed work of fiction, a novel of frustrated love and muted social commentary set among the woolen mills of Lancashire in the nineteenth century. Berger to live in a degree of restrained comfort for the rest of his life.
Berger was saddened by this development. Slowly he was becoming a kind of fixed object, and the books he read came to reflect his view of himself. Berger was far less dull than he appeared. Its community was predominantly High Anglican, with a corresponding focus on parish-centered activities: His advances appeared to be reciprocated, and the couple performed a mutual circling for the space of a year until someone less inhibited than Mr. At one time it had seemed that he himself might become the cause of one such collection, for he entered into a state of cautious flirtation with a young woman in accounts. He was not a great lover and neither was he a tragic hero. Berger himself might well have concurred with this view. Berger was in the habit of taking a walk by the railway line. Great and voracious reader that he was, Mr. Finally, if only to keep his hand in, he began writing letters to the newspapers on matters of national and international concern. There was no particular order to them. Berger that he might not be cut out for the life of a writer, gentleman or otherwise, and perhaps there were those who should simply be content to read. Until recently trains had stopped four times daily at Glossom, but the Beeching cuts had led to the closure of the station. Yet perhaps there was in his interiority something that rendered him if not sexless, then somewhat oblivious to the reality of relations with the opposite sex, an impression strengthened by the collective memory of what had occurred — or not occurred — with the girl from accounts. He had always had a hankering to write, and he now had the perfect opportunity to test his literary mettle. Well, perhaps just a little of the latter: Berger felt that it made him sound somewhat obsessive about badgers, when nothing could be further from the truth. Berger to live in a degree of restrained comfort for the rest of his life. He got on perfectly well with his colleagues and was happy to join them for a pint of ale — but no more than that — at the end of the week. So it was that Mr. Once he had reached this conclusion, it was as though a great weight had fallen from his shoulders. His position as registrar paid neither badly nor particularly well but enough to keep him clothed and fed, and maintain a roof above his head. Berger quickly realized, the kind of book of which the Fabians might have approved, which put something of a dampener on his progress. In the evenings Mr. Berger entered the fray, and the young woman, presumably weary of waiting for Mr. One, on the subject of badgers, was printed in the Telegraph , but it was heavily cut for publication, and Mr.
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