I want to admit that, although he has written a dozen novels and a memoir, all apparently much loved and acclaimed, I have somehow never read Rupert Thomson’s work until now. I feel it worth mentioning this because I’ve just had so agreeable a time with his latest, Barcelona Dreaming, was treated so courteously as a reader, relaxing into a sense of nonchalant mastery and narrative control, that I now have a lot of catching up to look forward to.
Thomson is one of those writers who bolted out of the national gates at the first chance he got, choosing to live in many different countries after he began writing
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