/lit/ - Literature

Oh, Agent Rowling, you think you can dissect me with this blunt little tool?
You're so ambitious, aren't you? Do you know what you look like, with your good bag and your subtle botox? You look like a rube. A well-scrubbed, hustling rube, with a little taste. Good nutrition's given you length of bone, but you're not more than one generation from genteel midwit trash, are you?
And that accent you've tried so desperately to shed: pure Gloucestershire. What is your father, dear? ls he an engineer? Does he stink of oil?
How quickly the goons found you. All those tedious, sticky conversations in the back seats of conventions, while you could only dream of getting out, getting anywhere, getting all the way to the TLS.