Edgware Road

A woman named Magdalen sells me a first-edition Kerouac. It’s Saturday at Portobello Market, and at her stall Magdalen has thick collections of Rimbaud and Cummings, a shelf devoted to the Beats and a Kierkegaard section. It’s the sort of selection I would’ve curated in ninth grade, at the height of my belief that I … Continue reading Edgware Road