l'été de l'amour

One Monday afternoon last December, I saw a single copy of Lynne Tillman’s ‘Weird Fucks’, hiding in a corner of a Central London bookshop. The cover was pretty. A beautiful painting of a woman sat down at a small circular table, a glass of red wine in front of her, a pointy shell of some sort beside her, one breast falling out of her sheer linen shirt, …