Read by Paul Clarke
Edwin feels he is a no-hoper, a lost cause, a rock bottom dweller — hateful, spiteful and cynical — a misanthropic, talentless wretch with no redeemable qualities, forged from the dreadful ends of the world’s cruelty and pain, destitute and barren, unsung, unwept and unloved.
His writing career has not gone as planned. By the age of 36 he should have won the Booker and then publicly rejected the prize on grounds of its commercialism. He is nowhere close. He writes his epitaph:
Here lies Edwin Nicholas Shoemaker, fat failure.