Olivia Laing’s work to date has encompassed clear-eyed, transportive non-fiction (chasing down the ghosts of literary giants in the grip of alcoholism, blooming explorations of paradise) and fiction (her compulsive recent novel, The Silver Book, just out in paperback, delves into the sorcerer’s den of Rome’s Cinecittà Studios during Italy’s Years of Lead). Whatever the focus, a constant of the author’s work is its recuperative power, its warm-bloodedhellip;

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