The train bore me away, through the monstrous scenery of slag-heaps, chimneys, piled scrap-iron, foul canals, paths of cindery mud criss-crossed by the prints of clogs. This was March, but the weather had been horribly...

I didn’t understand how. But the toilets had responded to me. I had become one with the plumbing…

I was never very good with either my hands or feet. It always seemed to me they’d just been stuck on as an afterthought during my making. Dreams didn’t translate through sports, or music, dancing,...