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A Private Life

A Private Life by John Burnside ' I want to drive home in the dusk of some late afternoon, the journey slow, the tractors spilling hay, the land immense and bright, like memory, the pit towns smudges of graphite, their names scratched out for good: Lumphinnans; Kelty. I want to see the darkened rooms, the cups and wireless sets, the crimson lamps across the playing fields, the soft men walking home through streets and parks, and quiet women, coming to their doors, then turning away, their struck lives gathered around them.'

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